


Cutting Shapes

by ZoeBug



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anxiety, Blow Jobs, DJ!Marco, Drinking, Drug Use, EDM - Freeform, EDM AU, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Genderfluid Character, Hand Jobs, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Past Rape/Non-con, Rave, Rave AU, Raver!Jean, Self-Hatred, Slurs, Smoking, Social Anxiety, mentions of depression, self-harm scars
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-05
Updated: 2016-03-05
Packaged: 2018-02-06 09:58:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 91,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1853821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZoeBug/pseuds/ZoeBug
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because the way he DJs make me feel connected in a way I've never felt before.</p><p>From the ridges of my fingertips to the marrow of my bones, yes, I am one pulsing, fluid being; rippling as if through water, flowing as if through air, widening and narrowing like a wave of sound as it swells and ebbs.</p><p>But I am also connected as though through millions of minuscule fibers of adrenaline and sweat and bass to the air around me. And he, up on that stage, has them delicately twined about the lines of his fingers and the planes of hands, twitching and jerking them like a sorcerer commanding the powers of nature. He twists them so subtly, so confidently here and there: a pitch, an offbeat... And slowly, slowly, he bends and pulls me, vibrations on the air quivering and tensing as he draws me closer and closer, higher and higher...until he bursts me into shivering light.</p><p>The way he DJs makes me feel alive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Come and Get It

**Author's Note:**

> Hopping back on the multichapter fic bandwagon after years away. All cause of the Shingekis (and more specifically JeanMarcos.) Oops. 
> 
> Anyway, I had this plot bunny in the shower a few days ago (of course) and it wouldn't go away so here we are. I hope you enjoy.  
> I'll always post all the songs that are playing during the scenes in the beginning notes so you can go listen to them while reading if you so desire (: Also any other things you might need references for (links, photos, etc.)
> 
> Hope you all enjoy!~
> 
> This is also dedicated to my friends Chelsea and Greg.  
> To Chelsea for introducing me to the magical world of EDM (and your glorious screams during sick drops at raves together). And to Greg Ayers for being one of the most amazing DJs I have had the pleasure of seeing live. You are a rad dude and a phenomenal DJ. Your shows always have me convinced I am capable of existing in 4 dimensions.  
> <3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pull my heart out of my chest  
> Train my mind so I forget  
> Sink your teeth into my bones  
> Dig me out then fill the hole

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow long intro notes I'm so sorry but there's a bit of business for chapter 1:
> 
> SONG LIST:
> 
> 1.["Love Story" - Josh Williams](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GZAuk3hPBL0#t=19)  
> 2.["Icarus" - Madeon](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XHs99iVpnXU&feature=kp)  
> 3.["Clarity" (Torro Torro Remix) - Zedd](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=57pzx5t_zGg)  
> 4.["Mind Control" - Zomboy](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Odt_7AEE-XM&feature=kp)  
> 5.["Come and Get It" (Razihel Remix) - Krewella](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2LeKMGwNaqs)
> 
> Outfit/accessory refs for some things people might not be familiar with (since if you don't know rave styles they're kinda hard to conceive ha).  
> My previous ref photo's source for Jean's outfit disappeared but the lovely maxxiegalaxy drew Jean in the outfit he wears [here](http://maxxiegalaxy.tumblr.com/post/107384316247/raver-jean-from-the-fic-cutting-shapes-by-the)  
> [ These are the LED light gloves ](http://38.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m60eveRS1X1qje185o1_400.gif) [ that Connie wears and what he does with them. ](http://38.media.tumblr.com/9cd423671a81fee013f423f79d35616b/tumblr_mljcbsG7BQ1qlw25ro1_400.gif)  
> And Sasha also hoops, which means [ she does stuff like this ](http://38.media.tumblr.com/66d5aa2b0def8cde91313850dc63b33b/tumblr_minbitgc6z1s5cwpmo1_500.gif) [ using a hula hoop with LED lights built in. ](http://38.media.tumblr.com/c43a3564df046bf5aa81452ea8f7800e/tumblr_ms0soxZ2kQ1ss7qt2o1_500.gif)
> 
> SASHA AND CONNIE JUST REALLY LIKE LED LIGHTS OK?

 

## cutting shapes

 

#### ( _alt._ : to cut shapes) 

**_verb_**  
_nonstandard; slang_

####  **1\. to dance**

* * *

 

You see, there's a feeling people get sometimes.

Some people feel it when they're at church, reaching outward towards the great beyond and sense something reaching back. Some people feel it when they're alone, surrounded by a swirl of growing, ancient forest older than the language they speak. Others, when they're afloat in an ocean so vast and infinite that it swallows everything but their thoughts. I know people who've felt it while skydiving, while having sex, while slam-dunking a basketball.

You know the one I'm talking about.

It's that feeling you get as if you and your mind and your body are one, contained within only this moment―this single stretch of nothing within an infinite universe. And yet you somehow, with this feeling, can stretch your fingertips out and beyond it―to the eternity beyond it―and brush the very edges of everything. It is a serenity of self paired with a euphoria of spirit that rarely mesh and it's so powerful that it feels as if it will almost tear through the seams of you and pour out.

But you are not scared, and you are not overwhelmed.

You just are.

And me? Well, for me, this feeling only comes when I listen to music.

I can see the bus around me, feel the slightly uncomfortable scrape of my work uniform collar on my neck that I can't wait to change out of, the rock that had wiggled its way into my shoe...but I'm somehow aside from it, only aware in passing.

The song is pulsing over me in soothing, energizing waves, slowly sinking into my ribcage with every beat and tone, folding itself around the tissues and bones and then infusing them with its light which, in turn, gains buoyancy and lifts. It floats up and up through my chest, through my nasal cavity and the crown of my skull, leaving in its wake a warming glow.

The girl in the seat across from me meets my gaze and I see her flinch, looking away, her thin hands tightening around her bag. I close my eyes.

Scary face strikes again.

Over the years I've come to realize this seems to be a direct result of the sneaking suspicion biology has dialed me to 9 out of 10 for my entire fucking life. My head sees the word "overdrive" and thinks "normal operating function". Mental exhaustion is more a state of normalcy I've learned to work within, brain constantly churning out worst case scenarios or, to be more accurate,  _every_ case scenarios at every conversation and occurrence _._ I'm not even going to touch on the eternal mess of knots and sore muscles that make up my shoulders.

And that apparently translates into near-constant bitch face. With a healthy dose of regular awkwardness and resulting over-exaggerated bravado. I'm obviously the picture of social grace.

Life is rough, man.

I pat the leg of my khaki work pants for the 8th time that bus right.

Wallet, keys, phone. Good. Still there.

I grip the backpack I'd also brought to work today, assuring myself of its continued existence with the physical contact. Considering my apartment is in the complete opposite direction from work as Sasha and Connie's place, I'd brought my crap with me to the store as it would have required double the time double back.

I sigh and lean back into my seat.

But see, the thing is, I've found an escape.

The bus bumps over a pothole and one of my earbuds pops out, breaking the soothing bubble of sound and it's like someone's dropped an ice cube down the back of my shirt. The bus around me is suddenly too clear, too loud, too close again, the details almost piercingly sharp. The buzz in the back of my mind starts to creep back in like a winter chill and I quickly fumble to pop it back in, letting the music sooth it away again.

When the bus halts jerkily at the stop nearest Connie and Sasha's neighborhood I stand. Sparing a glance or five back at the seat to make sure I hadn't forgotten anything, I shuffle off the bus, practically _feeling_ some of the other people shrink into their seat as I pass.

The minute I'm out in the muggy, late afternoon air of the suburbs, I take the opportunity to a) unbutton my stupid polo as far as it will go, b) pull my equally stupid e-Cig out of my pocket and balance it between my lips before c) tapping the volume of my iPod up a good five clicks now that I don't have to worry about annoying anyone.

The bass and water drop tones seem to sink deeper with each click. I inhale, the bright white of the LED at the end of of the plastic lighting up as I do so, and I start walking, hoisting the pack higher on my shoulder.

I miss real cigarettes.

Quit smoking, they said. Look like a tool smoking e-Cigs, they said.

I probably look like such an idiot right now. Smoking my stupid little fake cigarette, still in khakis and a polo shirt.

_Just get to Sasha and Connie's and you can change and settle. You'll be able to ground yourself...to feel like you again._

I take another three or four anxious drags, blowing the milky smoke out into the muggy air, trying to lose myself in the song again.

When I resurface, I'm knocking on the door to a humble, squat little house on the end of one street. The light green paneling is faded and cracking in places but no house I've ever lived in has looked quite perfect and still been able to feel like home.

The first thing I see upon the door opening is a bright grin as I reach up to click the pause button built into my earbud cord.

"How many times have I told you not to knock?" Sasha teases cheerily before her eyes flick up and down, taking in my work clothes, now significantly more limp than when I left work from the bus ride and walk. "They seriously make you wear that? I thought you worked at a computer repair place, not Walmart."

"Yeah," I sigh, stuffing the e-Cig into my pocket, "but either way, I don't get paid nearly enough. And like any sane person I'm itching to get out of this and into some fucking decent clothes."

"Preach, brother." She says, stepping aside to let me in to the―thankfully air conditioned―living room. "I was about to start getting changed too- _Connie! Jean's here!_ " She shouts in the vague direction of the rest of the house. I hear a nondescript reply swallowed by the low thudding bass coming from somewhere in its depths.

Sasha turns back to me, rolling her eyes.

"He's been up to his eyeballs for hours now trying to fix a pair of light gloves that aren't working."

"Another new pair?"

Sasha rolls her eyes, nodding.

"I've just been trying to steer clear for now." She shrugs before jerking her head in the direction of the bathroom, the messy mass of her dark brown hair following the movement like a delayed shadow.

"Go get changed. I'm gonna take the Jell-O shots out of the fridge. I think they're done."

"It's like seven." I respond, my eyebrow raising. "You're gonna start pre-gaming this early? We're not planning on getting there til like 10:30 at the earliest right?"

"Yeah." She shoots back huffily, her mouth pouting prettily. "But no one's making _you_ take any. More for me!"

She spins on one foot towards the kitchen in a dramatic huff but I catch her smirk as she goes. I just laugh and head down the hallway, bag in hand, following the thudding music to its source.

Sasha and Connie's house smells like fun and fruit scented candles and feels like home.

As HQs go, our little friend group couldn't really ask for a better one. Or get another, better or not, seeing as these two are the only ones who have a house to themselves at which station said HQ. The apartment I live in is too far from anything fun to be useful, and the dorms of the state college nearby where the other two live is clearly out of the question.  

Veering into the bedroom around the corner at the end of the hall, the place would have looked like a tornado swept through each of their closets and deposited the entirety of their wardrobes on the floor, furniture, and just about every available surface. That is, if their closets hadn't been still full regardless and, in honesty, looked about the same.

On one side of the bed, Connie up to his waist in fabric and wires, hunched over something in his lap and going at it with a pair of pliers. He's already dressed his customary dark wash jeans and hand spray-painted hoodie.

"Having problems?"

As is custom, I stake my claim to a corner of their bedroom for the night and drop my bag, crouching to pull the contents out onto the floor.

Connie drops what I see now is the left glove he'd been tinkering with onto the bedside table he seems to have been using as a workbench with more force than necessary and lets out an aggravated huff.

"Fucking thing- I just got these! I've worn them once and now the middle finger pad isn't lighting up. Cheap junk."

"Oh no, how will you flip people off in the dark now?" I reply sarcastically, laying my pants and tank top out onto the floor before reaching down to grab the hem of my stupid polo and rip it over my head with disdain.

"Shut up. You're just jealous of my skills." He shoots back, picking up the glove again a little forlornly and continuing to fiddle with the switch and wiring.

"Just because I don't need to dance with LED's on every extremity doesn't mean I'm jealous."

I unbutton my pants and shimmy out of them.

"Totally does."

"Shut up." I laugh, now in my boxers.

I used to be embarrassed about changing in front of people. But when most of the people you meet you now meet in rave clothes at varying levels of undress, the novelty wears off pretty quickly. 

I begin to wriggle into to my pants. I think Tripp pants are as stupid looking as a most people, which is why I wear ones with narrow cut legs. How the fuck are you supposed to really dance with pants like parachutes anyway? But this black pair with the neon green detailing, metal zippers adorning them in zig-zags and a bright biohazard symbol across the back is my favorite. And with the day I had I'm aching for some familiarity. Tonight is about comfort and fun. About letting in and letting loose.

"Going with the tried and true?"

Connie's eyeing the pants with that grin he always has - the one that makes you scared he's about to do something really stupid and crazy that'll end up being a story you'll tell for years.

"What can I say? I'm one for the classics."

Connie snorts and gestures at himself with the hand also cradling a screwdriver.

"Like I'm one to talk." He sighs. "Sasha, on the other hand, I have no idea what she's gonna wear. It's like every other weekend she's got some new outfit or something. I don't know where half the rave shit she owns comes from."

"But you have to admit, she always looks stellar."

Connie nods enthusiastically.

"She always looks insanely fucking hot, yeah, I'm not arguing that. It's the amount of clothes that makes me confused. I haven't looked but I'd bet money there's a black hole in that closet." He sighs. "Girls..."

I just shrug and he laughs.

"But then again, you're not really one for the girls, are you?"

"Hey man, I've dated girls. If someone's hot, they're hot."

"Just most of the people you think are hot and then end up liking too happen to be guys." The deadpan I level him with makes him snort. "A'ight, man, whatever you say."

Connie turns back to his glove smirking and I punch him playfully on the shoulder before grabbing my tank top and carrying it with me back out toward the kitchen shirtless to see Sasha. I'm still recovering from the outside heat despite the coolness of the house so I don't bother shrugging it on just yet. 

Apparently she's on the phone, leaning against the counter. A tray of Jell-O shots is set on it beside her, her hair flipping around between her knuckles as she toys with it while listening intently to whoever is speaking on the other end.

"Oh, no, no, that sounds totally great, bring them along for sure!"

She puts a hand over the mouth piece of her phone and stage whispers " _Mikasa_ " before jerking her head towards the mini cups of quivering alcoholic sliminess beside her. She grins as if you say "you sure you don't want any?" before continuing on with her conversation.

"Nope, same place."

I hear Mikasa's soft, low voice buzzing from the phone in reply but I can't make out the words

I grab one of the Jell-O shot cups, but instead of throwing it back, I raise it up above my head and watch the way the fluorescent kitchen light filters through its translucence.

"Did I remember to-? Mikasa Ackerman, do you really think there is any point in time where I do not have a stockpile of at least 300 glowsticks in my possession? What kind of household do you think I run?"

I chuckle and Sasha turns to acknowledge it with a smile.

"Ok, well, see you guys in a bit then. You can come over and get ready so no need to worry about taking the bus over here in full gear and such. More fun to get ready together anyway. And it'll give us time to get to know your friend. Yep! ...yep, see you soon! Love you! Mwah!"

Sasha makes a kissing sound into the phone before hanging up and raising her eyes to mine.

"Mikasa and Eren will be-" Sasha stops, seeming to have realized that I now have two fingers stuck into the shot, absentmindedly swirling it around out of a combination of boredom curiosity and sighs. "Jean, for God's sake, either drink it or leave it alone. What are you, five?"

Extracting my fingers from the Jell-O, I curl them into a fist and raise my arm into an L shape, grinning.

"Would a five year old have these guns?" I wince.

That sounded funnier and more relevant in my head. As usual. Fuck.

She scoffs.

"You're getting Jell-O all down your arm." She retorts and, sure enough, I feel the sticky, cold slide of melted gelatin on my forearm.

"Fuck."

"You're so smooth, Jean, it's a wonder you're still single." She teases sarcastically.

"Ha, ha, very funny."

"Well, anyway, like I was saying, Mikasa and Eren should be here soon. And they're bringing a friend they knew from back home. Just moved here to go to school recently cause they're a year younger than our kiddos. Apparently we got a freshy-freshman tagging along tonight."

"Hey, man, I don't judge. If they're cool they're cool."

Sasha's eyes sparkle at my reply.

"That's the spirit!" She slaps me goodheartedly on the shoulder. "Now, are you gonna take some of these too, or am I going in solo?"

 

By the time I hear a knock on the door a half an hour later, nearly lost in the bass of whatever Connie's got still playing through the stereo in the bedroom vibrating through the floorboards, Sasha is well on her way to being tipsy. Which is saying something considering her incredibly large alcohol tolerance for someone so small. In the end, I'm the one to finally throw on my tank top and walk to front door to answer it.

"Hey guys, about time you showed up!"

"Hey, Jean." Eren greets and Mikasa echoes the sentiment.

When I'd first met Eren, I'd thought the scowl he'd worn around me was a permanent fixture of his features until I'd offhandedly mentioned, " _Dude, you...do know I'm not after your sister, right?_ " after which he'd seemed to warm right up to me.

Compared to Connie and Sasha who are just giant balls of feverish giddiness when you get them dancing, these two rave with this kind of quiet intensity that's kind of a nice change.

An androgynous kid with a slight build and feathery mop of honey golden hair follows Mikasa and Eren into the living room, eyes nervously darting around, hands stuffed deep in baggy cargo pants.

"This is Armin," Mikasa says, gesturing. "The friend we said we were bringing along."

The kid smiles sheepishly, extracting a hand to flick a shy little wave in my direction. I consciously try to school my face into one of less intimidating varieties I can manage

"More the merrier." I respond. "I'm Jean, by the way."

"Is that Ms. Mikasa and Eren Jaegermeister?!" Sasha calls, appearing from the kitchen and rushing to gather them both in a giant hug before pulling back to eye the third person in her living room. "And you must be Armin! Nice to meetchya!"

"H-hi, are you Sasha?" The reply is a little soft and hesitant. The kid kind of reminds me of myself. Except the nervousness that occasionally bubbles up from the depths of me is spread starkly and blatantly across the pale skin and thin frame before me. My heart goes out to the small blonde.

"That's me!" Grinning, Sasha throws her arm around the small shoulders, giving a warm sideways hug. Under her weight, affectionate but not too intimate, I see those shoulders relax and a smile start to creep across pink lips. If setting people at ease were a bulls-eye, Sasha's the truest shot I know. "Make yourself at home. Mi-"

"If you make one more _Mikasa es su casa_ joke I will slit your throat." Mikasa deadpans.

Sasha only blows a kiss, scuttling around behind the group to shut the door.

"Love you too. Oh, there are Jell-O shots in the kitchen if anyone's interested! Speaking of the kitchen, at some point you guys should probably go grab something to eat too. Gotta put some fuel in the tank for tonight."

Eren's eyes widen.

"I vote doing that before changing. Since everything I wear is white as fuck."

"I'll come with you." I notice the nervous little wringing of Armin's hands at the sentiment, a red bracelet on one wrist jingling at the motion. But Mikasa seems notices as well, reaching to grasp them in a soothingly steady one of her own.

"Sasha and I'll introduce you to Connie while the boys get something to eat, all right? And show you around the house so you know where everything is."

The look on Armin's face almost hurts to look at, it's so honest and grateful.

"Thanks."

"And I'll be there in a jiffy, Armin." Eren assures, expression comforting as well and Armin smiles again. This time the nervous edge to the blonde's face softens a bit and the light behind those startlingly clear blue eyes brightens in a genuine flicker.

Say what you want about our group, but we're pretty downright decent people. I mean, it's hard to party or rave with people who aren't. You can get into some pretty shitty situations at these things - lost wallets and keys, people getting sick, injured, alcohol related mishaps, creepers, etc. - so knowing you have caring, nonjudgmental people who'll help you at the drop of a hat is invaluable.

I follow Eren into the kitchen, the sound of the others' footsteps receding down the hallway away from us.

"So, uh, not to be rude, but is Armin a dude or a chick?" I ask absently, opening the fridge and bending down to grab a few cheese sticks.

"...Do you want to fuck Armin?" The response is so blunt that I almost slam my head on the freezer door handle straightening up. I turn to face him, shocked.

Eren is leaning against the counter, the perfect picture of nonchalance. But severity crackles beneath his words as he calmly opens a packet of beef jerky.

"W-what?"

"Do you want to fuck Armin?" He repeats, calmly.

"Wha- uh, no?"

"Then does it matter?"

I fall silent for a moment before responding.

"I...I guess not." Spooked, I turn back to the counter, the crackling plastic of the cheese stick wrapper suddenly loud in the emptiness between us. "...Sorry, man"

"Look." Eren lets out a frustrated little breath, hand coming up to run through his messy brown hair. "I guess I'm just a little defensive of Armin. He's had a lot of people being shitheads about his gender in the past and now that he's new in town he has to go through this again, so..."

"He? So he's a guy?"

"Holy shit! No!" Eren exclaims, his tone frustrated, then sighs. "Armin is genderfluid. Means your gender changes all the time. You know about the whole "gender isn't sex" thing, yeah?" I nod, and he continues. "Basically what you need to know is call Armin "they" by default unless you see a colored bracelet. Hella off the binary most of the time. Some days he feels like a guy, though, and some days he feels like a girl. I'm using "he" right now because he's wearing a red bracelet today."

"Red bracelet?" I remember seeing a red bracelet, yeah.

"Helps us know which pronoun to use on a certain day. So we don't have to just be like "Hey Armin, what gender are you feeling today?" every time we see him. Red means you use he/him/his, green means you use she/her/hers, and no colored bracelets means you use they/their/theirs because he wants neutral pronouns that day."

"Ok. I'll... try to keep that in mind."

"I know it seems like a lot to remember but you get used to it pretty quick. Armin's just Armin no matter what gender a certain day has him being. And using the right pronouns will get you on his good side real fast. Which is worth it, by the way. Armin's an amazing person to be friends with, so..."

Eren trails off, eyes flicking away from me to the window and I think I detect a subtle flush creeping under his dark cheeks.

Suddenly the defensiveness with which he'd explained Armin's gender expression gains a whole other layer.

"All right. Yeah, seems really nice so whatever I can do to make-" I hesitate making sure to get it right, "-him feel more accepted, I'm more than willing. No problem."

"Thanks. And don't worry, he opens up fast. Especially if you party with him." Eren grins.

I just laugh, retorting before taking a large bite out of one of the cheese sticks. "Don't most people?"

Suddenly, the distant pounding of Connie's music in the bedroom changes to something lighter and I look up at the shift.

Eren looks up too then smiles, a flicker of recognition lighting his face as he pushes himself off the counter, swallowing a bite of beef jerky.

"Toss me one too, would you?" He asks, gesturing at the cheese stick in my hand. "I'm ready to get out of these stupid clothes and into my sexy ones."

I scoff and he just grins back cheekily as I oblige, grabbing another cheese stick out of the fridge throwing it to him. After a final swallow and a quick handful of the discarded jerky I trail after him out of the kitchen.

"R-really?"

A voice from the bedroom floats towards me accompanying the unfamiliar but enticingly happy music now playing on the stereo. I follow it.

"Yeah! I really like this!" Sasha is saying from in front of her full length mirror, frying the dusty brown curls of her hair into gleaming straight plains.

Mikasa is perched on the corner of the large bed, pulling her gear out of her bag, presumably in preparation to get dressed. She gathers the bundle of black and more black and lace precariously into her arms.

"Armin's got some really cool taste." She agrees, heading to exit the bedroom towards the bathroom.

Armin himself is blushing over by Sasha's massive stereo which takes up about three fourths of the desk wedged against one wall, setting down the iPod in his hand.

"All right, well, as long as you guys don't object, I'll let this play while I do Eren's make-up."

"I don't need you to do my make-up." Eren protests.

"Yes, you do." Armin states firmly. "Last time you tried to do eyeliner yourself you looked like a drown raccoon."

"I was going for more of a Jack Sparrow type thing, but I guess some people don't-"

Armin laughs good naturedly, interrupting him.

"Just sit down, shut up, and let me make you pretty, okay?"

"Fine." Eren grumbles, not looking anywhere near the area of genuinely distressed.

The flow of Armin's music is bit dreamier than the stuff I normally listen to but when the beat drops it's got a flare to it and I find myself bouncing on the balls of my feet.

It's not the stuff that makes me want to grind my hips in circles or jump until my calves are on fire, but it makes me smile and feel like this night is going to be a good one. So I decide I like it, moving to another mirror propped against the wall on top of a dresser.

"You gonna do any makeup tonight, Jean?" Connie asks, still bent over his glove where I'd left him.

"Uh, I don't know, maybe just some eye-shadow or something." I mumble in reply.

"Think fast, then!" Sasha laughs and I turn just in time for a small round container of eye shadow to smack me in the forehead.

"Hey!" I protest, rubbing my head and bending to grab it. Connie just snickers.

"Get back to your gloves, light show boy." He just makes a face at that and I turn to start darkening my eyelids.

I breathe in and I breathe out.

There is no fear here. There is no expectation. There is no worry. Just friends and fun and excitement.

These are the nights I live for.

Soon there will be nothing but flashing lights, and my friends smiling, and that sweet euphoria that being surrounded by my music and everything that comes with it brings.

Soon I'll be free.

"Ouch!" I hear Eren exclaim from across the room. Armin yanks the hand holding an eyeliner pen away from his face.

"Oh! I'm sorry!"

"You're fine." Eren mutters, dabbing at his eye. "Just let me pop my eyeball back in and we're all set."

Armin laughs and it's a warm, bright sound. I'm starting to see why Eren's so fond of this kid.

"So who's playing tonight?" I ask, not directing the question at anyone in particular.

"Some new guy, I heard." Mikasa comments. I hadn't even heard her come back into the room but she's leaning in the doorway, watching with amusement as Armin applies the finish touches to Eren's look.

There's black and lots of lace and her pale skin flashing through is striking in comparison. If the Addam's family had a hot partying daughter, Mikasa's what she'd look like in the best way possible.

"New, huh? Wonderful." I sigh.

New DJs are usually pretty bad. The transitions are jerky, they're not sure which tracks actually make for good for dancing, and they never do any customization. Just track after track after track playing straight off their computer. DJ-ing is an art few truly master.

"He's new for Club Karanese, not _new_ new."

"Well that's something, I guess. Do you know what he plays?"

"Electro House and Dubstep I heard, with a few wild cards thrown in." I shrug at that.

"Sounds up my alley."

I hear dull thuds vibrating through the floorboard that are definitely not music. Looking over, I see Eren hopping up and down, trying to force his legs into some impressively small and blindingly white skinny jeans.

Armin did a damn good job on his make-up. He looks older, the line of his nose and jaw more defined, the blue-green of his eyes more striking.

After buttoning his pants he tugs on an equally white t-shirt with splatters of neon green across it and turns to Armin and Mikasa. The brightness of the outfit contrasts with his darker skin tone in a way that makes him head turning. 

What the hell is with all my friends being so hot?

"Ready."

"Well not all of us have such straightforward routines." Sasha quips, and Connie responds to her words with a scoff.

"Babe, you barely wear any clothes at all, what is there to put on?"

Sasha just shoots him a glare while the rest of us snicker.

"Regardless _I_ still have to get dressed." Armin adds, laughing.

"Which outfit are you going with tonight, Arm?" I can't tell if it's the make-up making Eren's eyes so bright anymore or if it's just the fact that he's looking at Armin when he asks.

"You'll see." Armin replies, grabbing a bag from the floor by his feet that I'd seen him holding when he'd arrived, and heads towards the bathroom. "It's a surprise."

Sasha turns to Mikasa and grins widely, tying on a neon green bikini top. She already has her matching skirt bottom pulled on over equally neon fishnets.

"You were right! What a cutie pie! He's welcome to party with us whenever!"

Mikasa laughs quietly.

"You haven't even raved with him. Maybe he won't want to come again if you hit him with your hoop."

"I don't-"

"You mean what happened the first time _I_ danced with you guys?" Eren interjects, grabbing Armin's iPod off the stereo speaker - not changing the song, simply scrolling through the playlist to scope it out.

"I apologized." Sasha pouts. "With Kandi."

"And I came back!"

"You couldn't resist us. We're too much fun," Connie chuckles.

"That, or I was scared you guys wouldn't survive another show without us looking after you." Eren retorts.

"Excuse me, but who looks after who?" Sasha's tone is challenging but playful. "I'm the mother hen in this group, thank you!"

Connie interrupts the conversation by holding up a glowing light glove with a triumphant "Aha! Victory!"

"Congratulations." I tease as Armin strolls back into the room. He was gone for maybe seven minutes but the transformation is startling.

The bright white demin shorts over fishnets isn't a look everyone can pull off with class but Armin certainly does. His cheeks shine with glitter, blue eyes nearly electric amidst the eyeshadow.

I snort at the large block letters _WHAT BOX??_ plastered across his tank top.

"You look great, Armin." Mikasa compliments, subtly nudging Eren's ribs to get him to stop gawking at the kids smooth, slender legs.

Looking around at our group, Sasha asks:

"We're all ready, then?"

"Ay-ay, captain!" Connie slips the gloves on, twisting his hands around in a smooth but robotic motion, the lights swirling hypnotically in the following chorus of "yeps!"

"Okie dokies! Connie you're gonna have to drive so you might have to put the gloves away for a bit," Sasha adds, finger on her chin.

Connie groans.  
  
"You and your damn Jell-O shots."

Sasha just laughs and leans in to give him a quick peck on the cheek.

 

When we finally pass into the giant dance area of Club Karanese in down town Rose, the flashing red and white lights are slicing through the air like swords of blood and snow. They spiral and swirl into green, into blue, my mind flooding with harsh, distorted visions of 8-bit forests glimmering and shining, of the waters of vast oceans spiking and dipping steeply like the visuals of a sound wave. The energy is seeping into my limbs, my hips, my fingers. The heat, the overwhelming sound, the lights, the people, no worry, no fear...

Already I can tell this is gonna be a good night.

Sasha's almost instantly got her hoop out, the light blurring into a ring around her toned hips. She's smiling at Connie, who is grinning back, slipping his gloves onto his hands. He grabs her hoop, stopping it mid-swing to swoop in for kiss before jumping back, hands and legs already swirling to the music again. The annoyed expression on her face dissolves into a laugh as she gives the hoop another good spin around her hips.

A voice surfaces from the tangling of beat and melody and I recognize the song.

 

_'Cause you are the piece of me I wish I didn't need_

_Chasing relentlessly, still fight and I don't know why_

 

I roll my eyes. This song's been remixed so many times it's almost groan-worthy.

But this beat... this beat is good so I decide maybe the verdict is still out. I guess if this new DJ had to pick a Clarity remix, at least he picked a good one.

Mikasa, Eren, and Armin - all of whom Sasha had decked out in glow sticks on the ride here - are shuffling and swaying to the beat, slowly easing and melting into the head-space of dancing. My arms start moving on their own as well, feeling each beat like a target to hit with the movement of my body as I slowly slide into the moment.

Yeah, this guy pretty all right.

That's when I glance up toward the stage, just to the side of the big blank wall where they sometimes project trippy videos or images alongside the DJ.

And he... well, he is nothing like I'd expected.

Not flashy, not dressed in clothes that scream "trying too hard," no ostentatious billboard logo of his stage name, nothing like that.

He's a lean, tall guy, in simple dark tight jeans and a well fitting, black v-neck t-shirt. One ear of a set of studio headphones is pressed to the side of his head, scrunching up his short dark hair.

He is smiling - more like beaming - at the people nearest the stage, reaching his free hand out to them, his long arm splashed heavily with a spattering of freckles that I can see even from here. He's bobbing, his eyes bright, mouthing the words of the song when they surface from the beat and melody like a submarine cresting the surface of the ocean.

 

_If our love is tragedy why are you my remedy?_

_If our love's insanity why are you my clarity?_

 

There is a magnetic energy to him, something vital. Like he is not only an integral part of the lights and the pounding, hypnotic music surging around me, but  he is the keystone, the puppeteer, the maestro of his own electronic orchestra.

The song ebbs into its dying strains as it slowly threads into the intro of the next, and I lean close between Mikasa and Armin and ask loudly over the music:

"Do you want to move closer up?"

They both shrug, looking at each other. Armin leans over to tell Eren and they both nod. Mikasa waves to get Sasha and Connie's attention, then points towards the DJ. Sasha waves, smiling, giving the message: "you guys go ahead, we'll stay back here if you need us."

I grab one of their hands―Armin, I think―to move through the crowd towards the DJ in a large chain as to not lose each other.

We finally manage to get pretty close, breaking into a space for the four of us to group up...and this new song is something I can only describe as heavy; sexy. Shit, it makes me want to grind my hips in circles. I love this kind of stuff.

I've always considered myself too awkward and neurotic to be seductive. My mind is always working too fast, considering all the things I'm doing wrong or looking dumb doing, making me far too insecure to ever exude any kind of sexiness.

But here... here where all my worry can just melt, eroded away by the waves of the music, the protective darkness of the room, the mass of people adding a comforting anonymity, I can just let go and feel it.

Then the bass drops and I can only I let the music carry me.

It doesn't carry me to the same place as it often does with this kind of music. It's more basic now, more carnal. The movements the music is pulling from me are lower in my body, more set in my hips, my eyes drooping.

I am so settled within myself here, so free.

And it isn't just the track either. It's the way it's being played, sped or slowed, the EQ subtly changing to have just the right splat of a grinding bass or the right pinpoint of a high note at just the right time.

All because of him, that bright, magnetic DJ. I lift my eyes, body still at the mercy of the waves of the music and I see him, eyes lit by the swirling lights, staring directly back at me. The brightness in his expression is interested, peaked, as if he is looking through the scope of a gun down its barrel at me.

I am entranced, my hips still jerking and gliding, my arms slicing through air, and all I can to is stare back.

And as the last of the strains the song fade and something I've never heard starts playing, his lips pull into a knowing smile, his eyes still locked on me, as if to whisper " _you'll like this one...just trust me..._ "

And...

Whenever I have found that moment in music, it has always been self contained; fully within me and about me. The music winds through and around me, enveloping me in complete singularity.

But now, I am not alone.

I am within this moment that is stretching on―past itself and through itself―but I am not alone. The music, the strands and ribbons of its invisible, caressing essence are reaching through the air and light and space between me and him. Me and this beautiful, bright beacon playing this entrancing thing, tying us together in this moment so exquisitely.

There is a beautiful simplicity to the beginning of this track, something hopeful and something pure. Something that whispers of an important shifting. And underneath that...a thundering praise of the way that humans, if we are very, very lucky, can truly change each other beyond our wildest expectations of ourselves.

 

_Pull my heart out of my chest_

_Train my mind so I forget_

_Sink your teeth into my bones_

_Dig me out then fill the hole_

 

Because for the first time, this feeling is not self contained.

It is a feedback loop of energy and promise and beautiful, soaring music.

 

_Tear me apart_

_Tear me apart and watch it burn_

 

The pleasure of this moment no longer simply comes from absence of dread; no longer simply a lack of fear or worry. There is something more now. Something beyond that. There is something more here that I have never felt with any intensity approaching what I am feeling now.

 

_And all that's left is a window to my soul_

_So come and get it_

 

Because the way he DJs make me feel connected in a way I've never felt before.

From the ridges of my fingertips to the marrow of my bones, yes, I am one pulsing, fluid being; rippling as if through water, flowing as if through air, widening and narrowing like a wave of sound as it swells and ebbs.

But I am also connected as though through millions of minuscule fibers of adrenaline and sweat and bass to the air around me. And he, up on that stage, has them delicately twined about the lines of his fingers and the planes of hands, twitching and jerking them like a sorcerer commanding the powers of nature. He twists them so subtly, so confidently here and there: a pitch, an offbeat. And slowly, slowly, he bends and pulls me, vibrations on the air quivering and tensing as he draws me closer and closer, higher and higher... until he bursts me into shivering light.

The way he DJs makes me feel alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [fanfic/podfic blog](http://zoe-bug.tumblr.com/) | [personal](http://xiexiecaptain.tumblr.com/) | [twitter](https://twitter.com/xiexiecaptain)
> 
> ((I also hope you all know I was like 3 seconds away from naming this "Please Help Me Find Marco" after the Molly mix, but I decided to be a decent person and not a meme-loving fuck and give it a real title so you're welcome ha))


	2. Clarity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The room feels smaller, he feels closer. It's as if the space between us is a viscous shifting thing, clinging to and sucking at my skin. I have the ridiculous urge to reach my other hand out through it and slide it down the length of his side, to feel his ribs and hips...
> 
> "But everyone has weaknesses for things, I guess, right?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoooo I did not expect to have the next chapter out this fast holy shit but the last little event hole for this chapter came to me and then it just happened.  
> Oops.  
> It was probably the HOLYSHITWHAT amazing response the first chapter has gotten after only a few days Jesus you guys are crawling out of the woodwork where did you all come from?
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has left kudos, bookmarked this, or left a comment wowowowow you are all rockstars and I love you!
> 
> Well, here you are my dears! Chapter 2!
> 
> SONG LIST:  
> Continuing from the end of last chapter:  
> ["Come and Get It" (Razihel Remix) by Krewella](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wPt6k4GMJ3Q)

I am electric. I am raw.

I am a force of nature, full of pure and unharnessed power.

But he... he is a master sculptor, shaping me and my movement and my energy, pulling and drawing from me what he knows will make me free, carving away all of the pieces that weigh me down and cover me up until I am shining and radiant and bare before him.

Because of him.

It's just dancing.

It's just dancing but, _God,_ who knew it could feel like this? Who knew _I_ could feel like _this_?

Even the aching in the balls of my feet, and sticky slide of sweat down my back is incredible, grounding me and assuring me that I am real and this is real-

But I am snapped from my dream, the music cutting off as sharply as a butcher's knife severing meat. The lights are suddenly flicked on, glaringly bright like the sun reflected off snow on a winter morning.

Blinking, dazed, I try to collect myself, feeling the familiar ache and fatigue creep into my limbs as the adrenaline slowly fades.

Eren, Mikasa, and Armin are still beside me, their pupils all contracted from the sharp shift in light, their expressions confused and annoyed.

"What's going on?" Armin asks, bouncing up on the balls of his feet to try to peer around. The annoyed, anxious murmur of a large crowd is growing in the void left by the absence of music, a buzzing of startled hornets surrounding me. Slowly the words, relayed through the crowd, skipping and skating overhead like a stone across the surface of water, reach us.

_"Some guy collapsed."_

_"Did you see him? He just_ went down _."_

"Everyone out of the way!" A stocky woman with close cut blond hair rushes past us. She's wearing a security uniform, ordering with quiet intensity into a walkie-talkie in her hand.

"Shit..." Eren murmurs worriedly, watching her go. Another person, a man, follows her, a cell phone pressed to his ear, but held tilted away from his mouth. He's extremely tall with sandy brown hair, stubble nothing but a smidge beyond 5 o'clock shadow on his jaw, and a strikingly large noise.

"Nanaba, I got 911 on the phone!" I hear him call to her as he quickly strides past us. They are swallowed by the crowd which has seemed to gather around a space a ways off from us.

"Whoever it was, I hope they're okay." Armin murmurs quietly, shifting his feet nervously.

"I'm sure they'll be fine." Mikasa assures, and Eren places a comforting hand on Armin's shoulder. "They're already calling for help."

Under her soothing words, I catch an edge of tension in the way she clips them, the way her fingers curl a bit too tightly at her side.

Almost unconsciously, my eyes flick towards the stage. The DJ is quickly and efficiently turning off all his equipment, his brow furrowed in absolutely concentration. He plugs in a standard mic and looks to the curtains behind the stage. Flashing a thumbs up to whoever is back there, he then places on hand on the table and fucking _leaps_ sideways over his equipment and down off the stage onto the dance floor, disappearing from sight.

The grating whine of mic feedback needles my ear as well built blonde man in business slacks, a white button down, and black tie is now grabbing the mic and staring out over the crowd.

"Attention, everyone." His voice, deep and calm, reverberates around the large room. "We currently have someone experiencing a medical emergency. If you would calmly make your way to the exit toward the front of the building, it would be appreciated. Once you are there, please leave a large path for the paramedics to enter once the ambulance arrives. Any one taking photos, harassing, or hindering the paramedics in any way will be fined and banned from this establishment. Thank you for your cooperation."

Placing the mic back on the stand, the man walks around the sound equipment and down onto the dance floor as well.

The crowd bursts into excitable babble and motion, becoming the surge of a large school of fish all swimming together in one direction.

"Well, head out with everyone else, then." Mikasa sighs, grabbing Armin's hand in one of hers. Eren follows suit, taking Armin's hand. Taking up the rear, I grasp one of Eren's hands and we start our precarious conga line toward the exit.

"Who was that guy?" I ask Eren, who is the only one within earshot above the roaring chatter.

"On stage? Oh, that was Erwin Smith, the owner. Actually, he used to co-own it with-  _Ouch_! Hey, watch where you're going!" Eren exclaims mid-sentence as a burly blonde guy knocks into him so hard Eren has to stumble several steps to regain his balance, his hand ripping out of mine.

"Sorry, man, didn't see you there, I was in a hurry." The tank responds gruffly. Another guy, tall and scrawny with a mop of dark hair, peeks around over his shoulder from behind him.

"Oops, sorry, guys!" He mutters quickly. The guy is drenched in sweat. I mean everyone at these things is―comes with the territory―but this dude is something else. "Come on, Reiner, we gotta go," he insists quietly to the blonde.

"Yeah, yeah, I know, I'm going."

They hurry off past our group without another word to us, but the big guy is muttering again to the brunette. His words and their reply drift back to us past the crowd as he goes.

"Knew we shouldn't have sold him so many."

"How was I supposed to know he'd take them all at once?"

Looking back to Eren, I raise my eyebrows but stay silent. Eren just gives a sad sigh and grabs my hand again, shaking his head before turning to the other two. Mikasa is scowling after them with murderous glare, while Armin looks between the three of us, eyebrows knitted in confusion.

"Come on, let's just get outside. I don't want to get in the way of the paramedics."

 

We exit the dance floor to the lobby area, the piercing oscillations of an ambulance siren screeching just outside. I can see through the door to the exit and the sidewalk outside on either side of the door is already crowded and cramped, save for a gap from the street to the door.

The room is bathed in blue and red fluorescent lights, their paths crossing in the air occasionally, mixing into splashes of purple by the time they hit the people passing through, the black fake leather couches along one wall, and floor alike.

"You guys wanna just wait in the lobby? I don't know if there's room outside."

"I want to find Sasha and Connie," Eren says, "and make sure they're okay. Also they're our ride home so I don't want to lose track of them."

"Good point." I agree. "Especially since Sasha was still a bit sloshed when we got here."

"I'll go outside and look around to see if I can find them." Eren says, nodding, and Mikasa immediately adds,

"I'm going with you."

"Me too." Armin chimes in, and when they turn to him questioningly, he adds, "I'm small and can get through crowds easily. It'll help." His smile is small and a little shy. After a beat, he adds, "I mean, only if you want me too."

"Of course!" Eren exclaims, throwing an arm around Armin's shoulders. "Besides, wouldn't want to split up the Three Musketeers on our first night back together! And what a welcome back, celebration, huh, Arm?"

"It's memorable so far, at least." Armin chuckles.

"I'll hold down the fort here, maybe check the bathrooms and see if they're there." I tell them, the two's easy connection pulling the corners of my lips into a smile despite the roiling chaos around us.

"Sounds good. Let's go, you two." Says Mikasa, heading towards the door.

The three of them file out onto the street. Only a moment later, a group of paramedics quickly wheel a stretcher into the lobby, past me, and through the doorway leading to the dance floor. That's when I see someone holding the door for them to pass, lips pressed into a narrow, worried line, brows furrowed as his eyes follow them.

He kicks the doorstop over with his foot, wedging it into the gap beneath the door. He strides over to the line of couches, flopping down on one across the room from me. Resting his forearms on his knees, he lets his head hang, sighing heavily.

It's the DJ, the strands of his hair closer to his scalp darker and glistening with sweat still. I watch as a few drops fall from his hair on to the floor.

His black shirt is also clinging to him with sweat, but it's not the kind that makes you squirm and recoil. It's kind that clings, gleaming in a sheen of exertion, to the muscles of his biceps and forearms and along the ridge of his collarbone.

When he finally looks up, his freckled cheeks still flushed from the heat, he spots me. I'm still anchored to the same spot, staring at him like a fucking creep.

"Hey." He greets, his voice high and clear, smooth and soothing like the water of a mountain spring. "You were up front for a bit, I remember you. Crazy what's going on, right?"

_Holy shit holy shitholyshit._

My brain kicks itself into overdrive―revs its engine and launches itself into a furious and unintelligible downward spiral of self-consciousness.

_T_ _hat fucking electric crazy thing- did he feel that too? Did I just imagine that? Am I going crazy? I'm probably going crazy._ _Yeah, cause I can just ask "Hey, guy I don't even know, did you feel a spiritual connection across the dance floor like I did?" Shit, that would sound like the fucking worst pick up line in the universe. Fuck._

_He's still looking at you! Say something, stupid!_

"Y-yeah." Is my eloquent response, and the worried lines around his eyes soften as he smiles. A warmth spreads through my chest at that, a calming, soothing warmth that seems to dull the tired ache of the post-rave state. "Uh... do you know what happened?"

The guy sighs sadly.

"I'm no doctor, but I've been around long enough to know when someone's popped too much E."

"Shit."

Ecstasy. Must have been what those guys earlier that had nearly run over Eren had been talking about.

"Yeah. He should be okay, though. It wasn't a heart attack or anything. Just looks like he was dehydrated, then passed out."

Ecstasy will do that to you. Pump you so full of adrenaline and endorphins that you forget you need things like sleep or food or water.

"That's something, at least."

He smiles at me again, but shakes his head, and I watch, transfixed, as another bead of sweat roll down his temple as he talks. His words are soft, distant, as if he's talking to himself.

"That stuff's dangerous sometimes. When people go that far I just- I think some people must be trying to run away from some really bad stuff to have to be pushed that far out of their head."

His eyes return to me and the blush across his cheekbones deepens, the freckles almost swallowed in the dusky coloring.

"S-sorry, I don't mean to offend if you're into that stuff. I see its appeal and everyone's got their own thing going, I don't judge. Just... I just have my reasons for not really... y'know."

"No!" I say quickly, my hands coming up to gesture in emphasis, "No, not my thing either. I guess if I like something I want to be able to enjoy it in my own head, you know? And I get into enough trouble sober as it is."

His smile is warm and inviting.

"I get you. Pretty unpopular opinion to have in this scene, though." He leans back on the couch, the material squeaking under him as his weight shifts. "Wanna come sit down?"

I glance toward the door.

"Oh, you have friends outside." His expression doesn't change, but it's more of a statement than a question.

"Yeah. The group I came here with."  
  
"They probably won't let anybody back in for a bit. Have to take care of business and such first." He explains, shrugging. "Erwin would probably want to avoid a lawsuit."

"Yeah." I concede, sighing and striding over to the couch to sit next to him. My legs are trembling but I can't tell if it's because of the adrenaline leaving them or where they're taking me.

As soon as I sit, the material of the couch protesting loudly under me is overtaken by the clamber of the paramedics reentering. They're pushing the stretcher from before, only now it's carrying a blonde kid with thick sideburns, pale skin flushed so badly I wince. His eyes aren't closed, but they're not open either, and his head lolls loosely around on the pillow.

The owner, Erwin Smith apparently, strides in behind them, his shirt collar undone and his sleeves rolled to the elbows, expression serious.

"E?" The DJ asks from next to me. Erwin turns his head as he passes but only nods gravely.

"I'll go let the patrons know what happened. And that they'll need to stay outside a bit longer while I contact some people and file a report with the police." His eyes drift to me, looking me up and down before flicking back, one eyebrow raised.

"He's cool." The brunette assures him, glancing over at me with a half smile.

Erwin just nods.

And with that, he's walking out the door and on to the street to address the crowd outside. I watch him go, only looking away when I feel a tap on my shoulder. Turning, I find an outstretched hand and a glowing smile revealing a row of straight white teeth.

"I'm Marco, by the way."

"Jean." I reply and we shake hands. The palms of his hands are soft and warm. "You, uh, well..." I trail off, the compliment I had been trying to form about his DJ-ing dispersing off into the far reaches of my mind; steam blown from a cup of coffee.

He just laughs.

"You still tranced out, man?" He asks, amused.

"Nah, I just... wanted to tell you that you play really well. Like _really_ well."

I wince. _Charm him by demonstrating your exception way with words, Jean, way to go.  
_

But his smile only grows wider.

"Thank you!" He replies, and the excitement and gratitude in his eyes at my lackluster comment is somehow genuine. "Honestly, I'm only as good as the crowd, though. People don't realize that the DJ only can put out as much as they're getting from the crowd. So when there's good energy out in the rave, I can really get into it." His eyes are bright and almost sparkling and it's like he's buzzing with some kind of electricity next to me. "You especially."

That makes me sit up straighter.

"What? Me?"

"Yeah, you. The way you were dancing. I don't know you just have this- this pure energy to you." His eyes dart rapidly around my face. "It's really great to try to match with my mixing."

"You were matching _me_?"

His eyes widen for a second, then flick down, a small smile replacing the breathlessly excited one.

"Yeah, sometimes I try to do that. Pick one person and just tweak and move the music to match their energy specifically. I don't know, it's fun. Makes me try harder if I can focus it all on someone, I guess." Catching the skeptical expression on my face, he hurries along, anxiously tripping over words while trying to explain. "S-sorry, I tend to experiment a lot. I mean, since I've got a pretty solid gig here and I know one off show while feeling out some new things won't hurt me. Oh God, wow, that sounds really spoiled, I'm sorry."

The conversation ebbs as we both pause to watch Erwin wordlessly return inside. His strides as he crosses through the lobby are measured and determined, movements stiff as he disappears back through the other door.

"You're not like other DJ's I've met." I tell him quietly with an amused scoff, breaking the silence.

"Is that a good or a bad thing?" He asks, turning back to look up at me through long, dark eyelashes.

"Good."

The word is unwavering when it comes. Something solid.

"Well, in the EDM world I guess it's good to be a little different. Helps people notice you. But it's got to be genuine, you know? You can't just fabricate uniqueness." His smile softens. "Someone really important taught me that."

"Sounds like they know what's up."

"Oh, yeah, Levi really knows what he's talking about." He agrees, nodding emphatically.

"Who's Levi?" I ask.

"The person I have to thank for being anything near a decent DJ, to be honest. You might know him, actually, he's pretty big. Full name's Levi Ackerman."

"Wait, you mean Levi 'The Corporal' Ackerman." I ask incredulously. "That Levi?" 

Marco laughs.

"The very same. Took me under his wing when I first got started back home. Taught me everything I know. Even helped me come up with my stage name."

"Which is what, by the way." I ask sheepishly. "Sorry, I got here after they announced you."

"No, no it's fine. I'm not big into pushing my name during every pause like some people. Marco Polo is what I play under." I pause for a moment, considering, and crack a smile. "What?" He asks, nervously, an anxious waver creeping into the word.

"No, no, it's surprisingly... you. It's catchy and fits your real name and how you spin. Smart guy."

"That's what Levi said. Since I don't sit up in my little DJ bubble, just playing to myself, he thought it was fitting because I really try to have a give and take with the crowd."

The passion behind this guy's eyes sparks when he even touches on the subject of playing. True, unironic enthusiasm has always pulled me in like a fucking magnet.

And it's weird, but I'm calm with this guy. Not relaxed, but calm. Normally, I'm wound so tightly talking to new people I can barely function. Especially one whose shirt is clinging to him the way Marco's is, whose hair waves gently above his ears the way his does, whose eyes sparkle and shine and captivate me the way his do. My mind is still racing but... it's not overwhelming like it normally is.

This is new.

Good.

"But, anyway, he used to tell me about this place that he co-owned with Erwin. About a month ago, when I said I wanted to move and try out a new city on my own, he pointed me over here to Rose. Told me to give Erwin his name and he'd set me up with a gig playing here to get my foot in the door. "

"Wow, The Corporal, huh? That's... no wonder you're so good."

"Not yet." Marco protests good-naturedly, running a hand through his sweaty hair. He glances up toward the mixing colors of the fluorescent lights. "But someday, I hope to be."

"No, man, I mean you're _good_. I- that was more intense than anything I've been to in a long time. It was electric in there."

Marco's eyes light up, and it's like I'm being warmed by the light of the sun again.

"That is the best compliment I've gotten in a while! Especially for it being my first show here."

"For real?" I ask.

"For real. Music is all about energy!" He states excitedly, his hands coming up to gesticulate wildly as he talks. "It's about creating the perfect storm of emotions and physical sensations from those emotions to match what you want to get out of the moment. And you- to say that you _felt_ what I was trying to create for you... That's really amazing."

_"..for you..."_

Now it's my turn to blush. I sit in the silence following the words, letting them drift around me like smoke.

"Huh...Looks like they're gonna let people back in to get their stuff." Marco states as the two security guards from earlier stride past us out onto the sidewalk. I hear their voices over the fading murmur of the crowd. "Probably won't be able to finish the show tonight though. Shame. I was just getting warmed up."

His smile this time is more of smirk. His body language shifts into something confident, something commanding.

"Shame." I echo after forcing myself to swallow. My mouth goes a little dry from the way he licks his lips.

"I'd be ecstatic to see you back in the crowd next weekend, though, if you can make it." His eyes slide sideways to peer at me, expression hopeful.

I swallow thickly

"Friday night or Saturday night?" I ask, managing somehow to keep the words from cracking as I speak them.

"How about both?"

I grin, the inside of my mind bursting into excited chatter that I can't manage to untangle into coherent thoughts.

But then the clamber of people rises like the crest of a wave, breaking as they begin to pour back into the building.

"It was really nice to meet you, Jean." He says. "I'll look forward to seeing you next weekend."

He offers his hand to me again.

"Yeah." I say taking it. But before I let go, my mind spinning with his smile and his music, I ask. "One thing. Clarity? You had to play Clarity? Isn't that a bit, I don't know. Cliché?"

Marco only blinks at me, eyes blank for a moment before he throws his head back in an unbridled laugh. It seems to bubble up from his chest, his hand still clasping mine, and it's like I can feel it crackling through my hand and up my arm.

"I have a guilty pleasure for good elements of things other people dismiss as a badly done or overdone whole package." He tells me eventually, still breathless from his laughter. "I always look for potential, sometimes to a fault."

And with the sudden rush of people pressing in the room feels smaller, he feels closer. It's as if the space between us is a viscous shifting thing, clinging to and sucking at my skin. I have the ridiculous urge to reach my other hand out through it and slide it down the length of his side, to feel his ribs and hips...

"But everyone has weaknesses for things, I guess, right?"

"Yeah?" I ask, barely managing to croak out the word.

"Yeah. I just put mine out there for everyone to see."

He lets go of my hand, but his eyes― _is he leaning closer?_ ―are still drilling into me, swirls of dark rich energy. His smile― _am_ I _leaning closer?!―_ s wicked and warm, like I am the center of the living, pulsing universe.  _God_ , I want to drown in this feeling forever. When he speaks again, his clear water voice now scrapes over gravel and rocks in its wake.

"And in my experience, that makes it a lot easier for them to become a strength."

Suddenly he is pulled away from me, standing up from the couch. He takes that warmth, the electricity with him as he goes turning towards the door back onto the dance floor.

"It was nice to meet you, Jean!" He calls back, flicking a little wave towards me. "I'll see you next weekend!"

I sit, stunned, blinking owlishly.

"Y-yeah!" I reply too late, and _wow, Kirschtein, way to go._

"Jean?" Sasha zooms into my field of vision like a neon green fish swimming in front of an unsuspecting diver's goggles. Following behind her I see Connie. And then Eren and Mikasa with Armin in tow have joined them. "There you are!"

"We found these two outside but then they wouldn't let us back in so we had to wait it out." Mikasa explains.

"And they're not even gonna start it back up." Connie whines, sagging against Sasha. Her lips quirk into an unamused twist. "We were only in there for like half an hour! What a drag."

Armin laughs at Sasha's expression and Eren smiles.

"Come on, Connie, stop being such a Debby Downer." Sasha prods, pushing against his shoulder to get him to stand upright. "This is why we have a back up club!"

"Back up club!" Connie exclaims enthusiastically, perking right up.

"We wanna dance, more right?" Sasha exclaims, beaming around at us. "It's a fucking Friday night. We're young. Come hell or high water, we can dance if we want to.

"We can leave your friends beind." Eren sings, a cocky grin stretching across his face.

" _Cause your friends don't dance, and if they don't dance, well, they're no friends of mine_!" Armin chimes, looking pleased with himself.

Giggling and laughing, we exit Club Karanese, obnoxiously singing _Safety Dance_ down the street. The neon signs of downtown light the street into harsh rainbow swirls that follow us all the way back to the car.

For the rest of the night, I try to sink into the new atmosphere, but the music that the other club is playing is too fast and too repetitive. It doesn't flow and it doesn't make me ache and gasp with things I can experience but barely understand.

And, for the life of me, I can't keep my mind from straying to visions of long dexterous fingers, gleaming, sweaty black hair, a spray of freckles swallowed by the flush of exertion, and the most entrancing, magnetic pair of brown eyes I have ever seen.

It's going to be a long week.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [fanfic/podfic blog](http://zoe-bug.tumblr.com/) | [personal](http://xiexiecaptain.tumblr.com/) | [twitter](https://twitter.com/xiexiecaptain)


	3. PLURsday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "We'll take care of it, okay? No one else is going to get hurt."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH MY GOD YOU GUYS ARE SO LOVELY!!! So many kudos and comments! Thank you~ I'm so glad you're all enjoying the fic so much! It's encouraging me to work on it more <3
> 
> CHAPTER BUSINESS: 
> 
> SONG LIST:   
> ["Villain" - Joe Ford](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-ZEVz4ty7Hk)
> 
> OK other notes.  
> 1\. Unapologetically puts all my sexuality and gender headcanons in this. Sorry not sorry. (So much love for genderfluid Armin, btw! Yeah yeah all my nonbinary kids out there, representin'!)  
> 2\. My partner works for a computer sales place at my university and so I'm projecting a lot of his complaints about that job onto Jean ha. Sorry not sorry take two!  
> 3\. "Kandi" is how you refer to the lots and lots of colorful bead bracelets, necklaces, and other accessories raves wear. Girls tend to wear more than guys but you can usually spot a few beaded bracelets on everyone at raves or EDM shows.  
> 4\. And, as stated, PLUR stands for "Peace, Love, Unity, and Respect" <3 You'll see "PLUR" all over the rave scene.
> 
> Please enjoy you guys!!

It's about an hour before closing on Thursday when the chime of the bell over the door of Kitts' Computer Sales and Repair announces Mikasa's entry into my dingy little workplace.

The week has be dragging so slowly I bet there are grooves worn in the fabric of space-time by this point.

I shoot her a weary smile from behind the sales desk where I had been lazily scrolling through Instagram on my phone.

The morning had started with a blearily chugged cup of cringe-worthy black coffee while continuing my new routine of the week. AKA checking Club Karanese’s website to make sure the name “Marco Polo” stayed firmly affixed to the “Appearing Talent” page.

Of course, it also didn't help that I'd been waking up, gasping, almost nightly from dreams of smooth lips and whispered words, my head echoing with songs I'd never heard.

After a few morning incidents of unnecessarily cold water to my face―admittedly of a few extra pairs of boxers than normal―and half a week later, here I am. Doing my time at work and selling expensive computers to people who will never know half of the stuff they do let alone use it all.

"Hello, Ma'am," I greet in my best impression of sleazy used car salesman. Mikasa snorts at the plastered on smile I flash her as she approaches the sales desk. "How may I help you? Here to buy a computer you know nothing about? Or maybe you're here for an overpriced upgrade your phone company said you needed. Or maybe the latest model of some Apple product even though the one you have still functions perfectly."

Suppressing a laugh behind her hand, she glances around to make sure I'm not getting myself into trouble.

But shop is empty, save for us. It had been since noon when my boss―the shop owner, Kitts, a shouty guy with sunken, beady eyes―had disappeared into his backroom office, most likely for a nap and I'd seen neither hide nor hair of him since.

She leans on the sales desk with one elbow, playing along.

"I'm a student at the University. Would I get a discount?"

I sigh theatrically.

"Unfortunately, no. If you're faculty, though, you can bill your department for any purchases. You're a well established, financially secure full time worker with health benefits and tenure! Why pay for things you can afford when you can pay for it with debt-addle 20-somethings' tuition money?"

She snorts.

"Rough day so far?" She asks.

"Nah, just slow as fuck." I shrug, dropping the caricature posture and slumping back into my office chair.

"Glad I could help break up the monotony."

"Speaking of which, why'd you decide to pay lil' ol' me a visit?" I ask, setting my phone down to rest my elbow on the desk, then placing my cheek in my hand. She's dressed in her usual day clothes, black tights with faded denim shorts and heels. Her loose tank top, blasting the words " _eat. sleep. party. repeat_ " shows off the sides of her bra where the arm holes are cut a little long. The collar disappears around her neck under a red circle scarf I almost never see her without.

"No reason, really." Looking down at her manicured nails, the reply reads a little too casual for it not to send up a flag. I narrow my eyes.

"Mhm..." I respond skeptically.

"Yeah, just in the neighborhood. Thought I'd say hi. Also, Sasha's in planning mode and wanted to make sure you were still coming tomorrow. For numbers and things."

Tomorrow. Friday. Dancing. Music. Marco.

"Of course!" Did my voice sound a little too loud? I think my voice sounded a little too loud. "I mean, uh, yeah. Yeah, I'm coming."

Before she can comment on my choked reply, however, Mikasa's phone chirps loudly. She fishes it out of her purse, the screen alight with a new text message. After swiping open the lockscreen, Mikasa looks up to meet my eyes.

"Speak of the devil, Sasha says to tell you happy PLURsday."

I laugh and roll my eyes.

PLUR. The raver motto. And Sasha's personal one as well. Peace, Love, Unity, and Respect. There are worse things to live by.

I smile.

"Send her a heart emoticon from me and tell her I'll make her a new piece of Kandi for tomorrow."

"Cute." She responds sarcastically, typing out the quick response, before slipping her phone back into her purse. "Although, I'm not sure Sasha needs more Kandi. She doesn't even wear it too often anymore."

"If she did, I don't think there'd be a bare patch of arm showing under all those bracelets." I reply, amused.

"Kandi Girl Sasha." Mikasa laughs. "I've seen pictures."

"Those were the days."

"You know, Armin wears Kandi a lot, especially on days when they dress more feminine. I should convince Sasha to pass some along. Give it a good home."

I pause for a moment, trying to gauge Mikasa's mood. Aside from the brief flash of hackles I'd gotten earlier, she seems relatively comfortable.

"So, uh, about Armin." I start. The murderous flicker that flashes across her eyes, halts the words in my throat for a moment, but I hurry on after a quick cough. "Uh, it's n-nothing like that, I just, well... does Eren like them?"

She is silent for a moment and I can practically see her brain backpedaling under the new subject. Slowly, her dark expression softens into a fond but sad smile.

"Yeah." She relents, letting out a long breath. "Eren's always liked Armin. Since we were kids, I think, they've best friends their whole life." She finishes the thought quietly. "And I don't think Armin would be doing as well mentally if it weren't for Eren."

I nod, listening intently. She continues, expression thoughtful.

"A lot of it, I think, was that Eren's never cared about gender. Learned what pansexual was at thirteen and never hid it. Punched the first kid who made fun of him for it." She laughs quietly to herself. "Eren has always been very unapologetic when it comes to being true to yourself. Be it him or the people he cares about."

"Sounds like him." I mutter.

"Yeah. But Armin...Armin's a little more sensitive to others' opinions. The constant "you're a boy: growing up hurt them a lot. And even later on in-" her slender fingers draw quotes in the air, "-"LGBT-friendly" circles, there was still the "are you MTF or FTM?"" She sighs. "Being non-binary means they're a minority of a minority. So it was really hard for them when the people they turned to for support didn't understand the concept."

"I can imagine." I add quietly.

"But Eren is, well, he's the type of person who just intrinsically understands. He just takes people as they are or how they explain themselves and as long as it isn't hurting others, he moves on with his life. And that was really important for Armin. They have someone in their life now who doesn't make their gender a big deal. It just is what it is and Eren gets on with it."

"So Armin likes Eren back?" I ask.

Mikasa shifts, leaning on her other elbow.

"I honestly don't know. Maybe? Maybe they do but don't realize it's romantic." She laughs. "I don't know how they haven't noticed Eren yet, though. He's a puppy dog around Armin most of the time." The image of Eren last weekend, eyes sparkling with adoration, flits into my mind and I laugh. "Eren thinks Armin is, to quote, "endlessly fascinating.""

"Eren is not that eloquent." I protest, my eyebrow raised.

"Fine." She relents, rolling her eyes, a faint smile tugging at the corners of her lips. "He said something more along the lines of "super cool," and I elaborated. He just thinks Armin is so intelligent and funny―which they are―but it's like, according to Eren the sun rises and sets because Armin wills it to."

"I think that's fucking cute, so thank you for telling me so I can tease the shit out of him tomorrow."

"Don't you dare." Mikasa warns sternly, sounding for all the world like a scolding mother. But after a moment, her expression darkens in a different way, this time with apprehension. She worries her lip for a beat before continuing. "About tomorrow..."

Sitting up straighter in my seat, I lean towards her.

"What's up? Are you okay?"

"I- well, you know what happened last weekend?" She asks, still working the flesh of her lip between her teeth.

"Oh, with the guy on E?"

"Yeah, well. Lots of people use E. It's just a fact of life in the scene. You know they don't enforce the no entry if you're under the influence rule too strictly and things, but..."

"But?" The tense undercurrent to her voice is making me nervous.

"There's no bringing anything in and there's no selling." The words are stern, less stating as they are almost fearfully scolding. A frenzied reinforcement of strict and sturdy walls that keep the chaos at bay. "To make sure no gets super fucked up in the club."

"Well, yeah, that's a lawsuit waiting to happen-"

"But I guess there's someone smuggling it in and selling."

My eyes widen, remembering the words of the tall, lanky brunette and stocky blonde we're literally run into last weekend.

 _"I knew we shouldn't have sold him so many_."

"Normally it wouldn't be that big of a deal, but the rumor mill's been running full force. And the guy who got sent to the hospital―Thomas, apparently, was his name―got discharged yesterday and..." She pauses, still chewing her lip for a second. When she continues, her voice is hushed, the words deliberate and heavy. "He didn't just collapse cause he took too much."

My chest aches and I realize I'm holding my breath. I let it out slowly.

"It was laced with something." My words are a soft exhale.

"Yeah." She's looking at her feet now and I can see the muscle in her jaw flexing.

"Shit. Do you know what it was?"

When she replies, the words are soft but rushed. Her voice holds the vulnerability and hostility of a downed power line stripped of its insulating rubber.

"I didn't hear any details besides it was laced with something that made him blackout after a bit."

The reason behind her clenched jaw and her chewed up lip and her clenched hands hits me hard in the chest all at once. Reaching out a hand, I place it softly and hesitantly towards one of hers now resting on the counter. I move my arm slowly as I speak, giving her ample time to retract her hand and am relieved when she doesn't, letting my hand come to settle over hers.

"I'm really sorry. This must be hard for you to hear about- considering-"

She shakes her head, cutting me off. The smile that stretches her lips is brave but I can tell it's a bit strained.

"I'll be okay. I'm just glad when it hit him he was in a crowd of people. That makes it easier to- to handle."

The way I can see her lips pressing together and the painful working of her throat as she fights back tears simultaneously awes me and makes my heart ache. I want to reach out and brush the bangs from her forehead and sooth the knot of wrinkles where her brow has furrowed. 

Mikasa is resilient but she is still a person.

And as steadfast and humble as she is in her strength, I think those of us around her forget that a lot.

"Hey." I say, pulling her eyes up to mine, speaking with deliberate conviction. "We'll take care of it, okay? No one else is going to get hurt."

"How?" The word is a choked whisper and my heart clenches.

My mind scans quickly through the possibilities, floating back to―as it seems all thoughts this week have―to Marco.

"I, well-" I start haltingly. "While you guys were outside last weekend, I sorta' got talking with the DJ." I try to sound as casual as possible, like I hadn't been turning images of his biceps, of the glistening sweat clinging to his collarbone, of the warmth of his eyes over and over in my mind on repeat for the past week.

"The DJ?" Her eyebrows raise in surprise, some of the strength returning to her voice.

"Yeah. He was really cool. Maybe I could talk to him again this weekend when we go and he could pass the message along. Erwin- Mr. Smith, whatever, is probably more likely to listen to one of his DJs, right?"

Mikasa's eyes are suddenly alight with so much gratitude I want to look away.

"You'd do that? I know sometimes it makes you uncomfortable to have to talk to people you don't know very well-"

"It'll be okay." I say quickly. _Please, give me another excuse to talk to him besides wanting his eyes on me again, please. I can handle some shaky hands and some hyperventilation. No big. I promise._

"Thank you, Jean."

"Sure thing. We've got your back." Her eyes drop from mine, her expression distant. She's silent for a moment before speaking again.

"Well, I have to get going." She says regretfully, readjusting the strap of her purse higher on her shoulder, "I have this online class and the homework is due at 8 tonight so I need to finish it."

I shake my head.

"You overachievers and your summer classes. But don't worry about it. Take care of yourself okay?" She nods turning towards the door. I call out again as she's halfway out the door: "Happy PLURsday!"

She stops, leaning back in, half her body through the doorway. Lifts her hands up, she curls her fingers together into a heart before exiting back out through the door with a chime, leaving me once again alone for the remaining half an hour before closing.

I sigh and pick my phone back up again. My mind whirls wildly from the conversation, bouncing from topic to topic like a child hopping between stepping stones, leaving me picking at my nails and tugging absently at the collar of my shirt.

 

I'm halfway from the bus stop to my apartment when my phone starts buzzing in my pocket. Feeling more than hearing it over the slow beat grinding through my headphones, I switch my stupid, dumb, is-being-cancer-free-really-worth-looking-like-such-a-tool e-Cig to the other hand so I can fish the thing from the depths of my jeans.

Connie’s name is flashing on the caller ID so I pop out one earbud. I hold up my cellphone to take its place as the song continues, grinding and perfect in the other ear.

“Hey, man." I greet, taking another drag, continuing down the sidewalk. "Sup?"

“Not much, you?” Connie’s chipper voice buzzes through through the phone.

“On my way home from work, actually." I reply, turning a corner.

“Oh, sorry, is this a bad time?”

“Nah, you’re all good." I reply. "So what’s up?”

“I’m just trying to get the deets together for Player 1 in a few weeks. You interested in coming?”

Player 1. Only the biggest EDM festival within a two hour drive that blows the top off the city of Sina every summer. Big name music producers playing their stuff live, side stage DJs spinning something somewhere constantly, video and arcade game themed, Player 1 is almost a guaranteed good time. Dragged along last summer by Sasha and Connie, I'd been a wide-eyed kid on his first visit to a candy store.

The heat of summer dripping off your back in sticky sweat, the laser lights of the stage flashing up and up and up into the clouds, the open night air, the crowds. Paradise.

“You think I’d pass up Player 1?" I ask incredulously. "Dude, always count me as a hard yes for Player 1.”

Connie’s laugh is burst of static through the phone.

“All right, all right, just making sure. Looks like we’re gonna have a bigger group this year, since Sasha asked the newbies and they said they wanted to go.”

“Speaking of the newbies.” I add tentatively, finally reaching the driveway for my apartment complex, “Mikasa stopped in to work today.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, she had news about the guy from last weekend. Apparently he collapsed cause whatever he took was laced with something." I pause, sucking in a breath before finishing with slow, heavy words. "Whatever was in it knocked him out, Connie."

There’s silence on the other end of the line, contrasting sharply with the waves of synthetic tones and deep bass floating in from my other ear.

“Is she ok?” This uncharacteristically serious, Connie’s voice sounds almost foreign.

“She’s... handling it. She probably won't want to go out tomorrow though.” Running a hand through my hair, I sigh. “Which is obviously understandable.”

“Yeah, man, it’s totally cool. I’ll check in with Eren and maybe Armin and see if they'd rather stay home with Mikasa than go with us.” Walking around the first few buildings in the complex to building D, I notice his voice is a bit weary.

“Sounds good. And, even if they don’t come, do you still want-” I stop dead in my tracks. The icy adrenaline of shock and dread suddenly shoots from the center of my chest to my fingertips in frigid spikes, leaving them prickling.

A key ring twirls absently around his index finger. Dark freckles stand out from his tan skin where his cheeks peek out from his sunglasses.

There he is.

And he's walking straight toward building D.

“Shit!” I hiss in panic. Ducking rapidly into the stairwell of C, my heart is beating so rapidly it aches.

“Dude, are you okay? What’s going on?” Connie’s concerned voice finally registers through the buzzing wasp nest that my mind has become. Not even noticing, I bring my e-Cig up with a trembling hand to take a few anxious puffs. I try to use the mechanical, repetitive motion of inhaling and exhaling the smoke to calm my breathing.

I am obviously the picture of a put together adult.

“Uh, ah, nothing, I- I’m fine-” I pant, whispering. “I’m good!” I let out a shaky laugh that ends up sounds a tad hysterical even to my own ears.

“You don’t sound good.” Connie deadpans.  
  
“I, uh, just-” The words trail off into strangled panting.

“Out with it, dude.”

I chance a peak around the corner of the building and he’s stopped on the sidewalk, hip cocked out as he seems checking a text message on his phone. He pushes his sunglasses up on top of his head to read it better and I swallow.

“You know the DJ from last weekend?” My voice is a terrified tremble as I duck back behind the concrete wall of the staircase.

“Yeah, what about him.”

“He apparently lives in my building.”

Laughing, Connie responds. “So?”

“So!?” I hiss back. “So, it's weird!”

“Why?” There’s a slight pause. “Wait, while we were all outside is that what you were doing? Flirting it up with the DJ?” He barks a laugh. “Setting your sights high, Jean, I’ll give you that.”

“This isn’t funny!” I wheeze.

“Yeah, it actually is! He's the one who had all the freckles everywhere, right?” I swallow.

“Yes, it is! Now will you stop being a bag of dicks and help me out here? What do I do!?”

“Go talk to him, you giant nerd!” Connie responds, apparently finding this the most amusing thing in the universe.

“No, I- I can’t.” I try to take a deep inhale, the breath hitching several times on its way in. “I’m shaking.”

“Someone's got a big fat crush.” Connie teases, but there is concern and sincerity in his voice when he continues. “All right, man, don’t give yourself a stroke. Just wait 'til he goes inside, then you can go up to your place and calm down. You’ll see him again tomorrow and then maybe you can talk and bring up where you live so it won’t be unexpected if you run into each other.”

Coming through for you when it really counts: the Connie Springer way.

“Thanks, dude." I let out a shuddering breath.

“No problem.” I can practically hear him grinning over the phone when he speaks again. “But, uh, when you get back inside to your place, make sure to use lotion, man. Chafing's a bitch.”

“Fuck you.” I reply in some strange mixture of gratitude, anxiety, and disgust before hanging up the phone.

Once more, I chance a look around the corner of the stairwell. But this time the pavement in front of building D empty, quiet, and decidedly free of hot, freckled DJs. I sigh and take a few grounding puffs to let the adrenaline seep from my body, leaving it aching and shaky.

I shakily fit my other earbud back in and take a few wobbly steps toward the stairs on the next building. I rummage around in my pockets with numb fingers to find my keys.

After closing the door to my apartment behind me, locking it, and drawing all the curtains like the anxious wreck I am, I collapse on my couch. I punch up the volume of my iPod up a good seven or eight clicks until there is nothing but slow, intricate, ribbons of bass and a skittering, shivering melody to slowly pick apart the tangled knot of my mind and soothe the exhaustion from my muscles.

I let it carry me far away from myself, into an abstract world of swirling colors and emotions that transcend spoken language. And there are, thankfully, only a few flickers here and there of dark brown eyes and the flash of freckled cheeks pushed up under the movement of a smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [fanfic/podfic blog](http://zoe-bug.tumblr.com/) | [personal](http://xiexiecaptain.tumblr.com/) | [twitter](https://twitter.com/xiexiecaptain)
> 
> I have started reblogging pictures that give me inspo for CS [here](http://zoe-bug.tumblr.com/tagged/cs-inspiration)


	4. Rapture

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "So, care to spin the wheel of fate?" He asks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gosh finally back to this! Had to knock some other updates out first. Keepin' on keepin' on.
> 
> But exciting news, I recently got to rave with my FAVORITE DJ in the world, Grey Ayers, and two of my other favorites Andrew Hilton (Hilty) and Freddie D., at the last con I went to and it was fucking fanTASTIC. Two whole nights from 11pm-3am of crazy amazing music. I nearly lost my voice from screaming during amazing drops and I was sore for *days* afterward but it was so, so worth it. I had an absolute blast. Which means, I'm supes excited to write for this fic all over again~
> 
> CHAPTER BUSINESS: 
> 
> SONG LIST:  
> 1.["Shuriken" - Madeon](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Dmc8AhGskLs)  
> 2.["Energy Drink" - Virtual Riot](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7eZIbmq5Jiw)  
> 3\. ["Killin' It" - Krewella (KillaGraham Remix)](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rANkvMggnZk)  
> 4\. ["Vancouver Beatdown" - Zomboy](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ihmN2gYHh9Y&feature=kp)  
> 5\. ["Come and Get It" - Krewella (Razihel Remix)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2LeKMGwNaqs)  
> 6.["Language" - Porter Robinson (Nightmare House Remix)](https://soundcloud.com/nightmarehouse/language)
> 
> Other notes:  
> 1\. I think I mentioned it before, but just in case since its important this chapter. Kandi is how you refer to the beaded bracelets (or necklaces or arm cuffs) that you often see ravers wear. People usually make them, theme them, etc. In raver culture, exchanging Kandi with someone is a thing you do to kinda symbolize new friendships and you do it in a specific way (like a secret handshake, its fun). This is a [video](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-8YqYPl7rmw) (first 15 seconds) and a [gif](https://38.media.tumblr.com/e625ddf4881d903c9211095bf54312ab/tumblr_mjf52qfvwK1r8l2x6o1_400.gif) of how you do it, for reference if you're kinda confused. I find it super adorable and cute and touching.  
> 2\. I am Sasha when drunk. Literally. I. am. drunk. Sasha. That is all.

"You guys are _sure_ you're okay with me skipping out?"

Friday had come bright and hot.

After a brief stint of playing ninja on the way out of my apartment building that morning, heart pounding in my ears, sure _he_ ' _d_ be waiting around every corner, I'd made it to the bus stop and safely to work. My mind fuzzy and distracted with thoughts of flashing lights, pounding beats, and a spattering of freckles across tan skin, I'd slogged through the work day in a haze.

If the Razihel remix of that Krewella song that Marco had played last weekend hadn't already been in my Top 10 Most Played on my iTunes, it certainly was after this week. I'd had the damn track on repeat all day, head lost in its soaring beauty.

After work, as per routine lately, I'd grabbed a sandwich from a sub place and then taken the bus straight to HQ. I'd puffed through an entire "I'm a douchey hipster" smoke by the time I'd reached their house but, for a change, I hadn't been first one there.

I make my way to the bedroom, following the music that rises like bubbles to the surface of a glass from it. Happy. Familiar. Sweet.

"We're doing a Madeon warmup again?" I ask, peeking in the doorway. There's a chorus of "Hey Jean!" and "Look who finally turned up!" from everyone's respective scatterings across the bedroom.

From stereo wedged into the corner, Armin turns to me sheepishly, setting down their iPod. I catch the sight of a pale wrist, sleeved with brightly colored Kandi until the very last, a solid, bright green cuff.

I make an internal note to shift the pronoun gears in my head.

"I really like Madeon, okay?"

"I'm just teasing, Armin." I say, striding fully into the room, "How is everyone?"

"Fucking pumped!" Connie chimes from behind Sasha as he seems to be super-gluing some kind of rhinestone or gem onto the back of her bra for her.

"I, uh..." Mikasa's voice is a bit subdued from her place on Sasha's side of the large bed where she's lounging in her normal clothes. "I don't think I'll be going tonight. Sorry about that."

"Mikasa, we said it's totally fine!" Sasha chirps, swiveling her torso to give Connie a better angle. "Are you sure _you're_ fine with us still going?"

"I told you, I'm not making you guys stay home on a Friday night because of me." Mikasa replies.

"You're not staying home alone." Eren insists, plopping down on the bed next to her, brow furrowed in determination.

"Eren-" She starts to protest.

"Don't argue." He says, crossing his arms. "I needed to catch up on The Walking Dead anyway." He adds, looking sideways at her smiling slyly. Mikasa just gives an exasperated chuckle, her lips stretching into a reluctant grin.

"Sounds great. I'll order us a pizza."

Out of the corner of my eye I catch Armin's face, brow furrowed beneath her straightened bangs in conflict. Her bright eyes dart between the other two on the bed.

With a nervous flick of her tongue across her lips, she turns back to her iPod and the stereo, seeming to flip through a playlist and adjust EQ knobs, her back to the rest of us.

I'm a bit saddened by the nervous fidgeting I'm seeing from her. Even if we'd only partied once and grabbed a singular lunch during the week with Eren and Mikasa on campus, I've really taken a liking to Armin since I'd met her.

"You know, Madeon's sound really suits you." The words are out in her direction before I realize I'd said them.

"Huh?" She turns to me, hair a golden arc with the snap of her head.

"I- uh, well- uh," I stutter, scrambling for words. "Like it's all light and happy but with a nice solidity to it." Armin blushes at my words and I reach behind my head to scratch it, embarrassed. "I mean..."

"Jean's a romantic at heart if you hadn't noticed." Sasha throws in smugly. "He's one of those people who-" she lowers her voice to a stage whisper, her eyes widening sarcastically, fingers drawing air quotes beside her head, "- _fe_ _els the music_  and stuff."

"Shut up, Sasha." I reply, sticking my tongue out at her before turning back to Armin. "I just would have thought Armin VanBuuren since, you know, your name's Armin." She laughs lightly.

"Everyone says that. To be fair, I do have his stuff. It'd be a disservice to be a raver named Armin and not own some VanBuuren tracks."

I laugh, hitting her on the shoulder playfully which draws a giggle.

It almost aches when I see her eyes land on Eren and Mikasa again and the expression falls.

"I-" She starts, twisting the Kandi around slim wrists with a nervous clatter. "I think I'm going to stay home too."

"What?" The two on the bed exclaim in unison.

"Armin, no. Go out with everyone!" Mikasa insists. "You've been looking forward to this since last weekend."

"But," Armin protests, "I'd miss you guys. You've been away for a year and I want to spend time with you." She turns to me and Connie. Sasha is watching with an expression I can only place by recalling an affectionate, proud mother. "It's not that I don't want to party with you guys-"

"Don't worry about it." Connie says, grinning. "Like you said, you wanna catch up with your buddies. Can't blame you for that."

"Besides," I chime in, "there are plenty more club nights for us to rave it up. And Player 1's coming up in about a month, so we'll get to spend all weekend together there."

Her smile is grateful and luminous, eyes and hair shining like a sun against the softer lights of the bedroom.

By the time we'd finished gathering our things and were on our way out the door a while later―"You guys can totally hang here all night if you want," Sasha had offered. "Spend the night even. We'll be back some time after midnight so make yourselves at home!" "Will you be drunk?" "More than likely."―I'd felt a catch on my shirt.

"H-hey, Jean?" It's Armin. I turn to find her standing behind me, trained on the floor and a little subdued.

"What's up?"

"One thing before you leave." Her hand comes up, the long row of Kandi clacking at the movement. It adorns her forearm like a brightly colored bracer. "I did this with Sasha earlier, but- Well, I'm not going get to rave with you tonight, but I wanted to say I'm really glad I met you and I'm excited to hang with you more in the future."

Her index and middle finger of her extended hand come up in a peace sign, cheeks coloring lightly.

Oh...  _Oh_.

I bring my mirroring hand up, forming a peace sign, I press the fingertips to hers.

"Peace."

"Love." She continues, curving her hand into half a heart and I do the same, our fingertips curling into the shape where they touch.

"Unity." Our fingers lace together.

"Respect." She finishes, reaching with her other hand to shimmy one of her pieces of Kandi up over our twined hands and onto my wrist.

"Thanks so much, Armin. It-" I swallow against the way my throat threatens to close on the words. "That really means a lot."

"We'll take care of Mikasa. Don't worry about us, tonight, okay?" Looking up at me, our fingers still twined, her smile is so warm. "But that means you have to rave three times as hard to make up for us not going."

I look down at the beads, bright yellow and white, like the shine of Armin's hair. Letter beats interspersed around its length spell out the words _STAY FREE_ in bold capitals.

I swallow.

"You got it."

 

"They'll be fine, I'm sure." Connie assures from the driver's seat of their tiny Grand Am. I feel like the awkward son of an eccentric couple right now, stuck in the backseat alone, chugging a Red Bull while Sasha rides shotgun.

"Yeah, I know."

"You sure we should have let them stay at the house?" He asks while Sasha takes a long drink out of a shockingly pink and shiny thermos.

"Mikasa's with them, it'll be fine." She soothes, flashing a grin at him before her eyes widen. " _Glow sticks!_ " She announces, popping the glovebox to a veritable waterfall of glowstick packages that tumble from it.

Connie just laughs.

"Rum tonight, babe?" He inquires, jerking his chin at the thermos while Sasha grabs a handfuls of the packages, tossing them back to me before tearing one open herself.

"Vodka." she corrects, cracking a handful of sticks. She waves them until they glow to life before sticking one under her nose like a mustache. She turns around in her seat to face me, crossing her eyes for comic effect, lips pushed out to balance the glowstick now lighting up her face in neon green. "Seems like a vodka kinda' night to me."

I just laugh and rip open a package with my teeth.

 

Climbing out of the car in the Club Karanese parking lot, Sasha whines, ducking in and around Connie's grabs for her thermos, protesting when he tells her to leave it in the car. But after a distracting kiss he manages to wrestle it from her fingers while she giggles.

Inside the lobby, we're ushered into a short line, leading to where I see a security guard asking guests to check any bags in the coat room before going through into the dance floor.

"Because of last weekend?" I ask softly, leaning in close to Connie. "With the laced E?"

"Probably." He replies, his eyes still trained ahead. "Hopefully this'll keep the creeps from trying it again."

"Connieeee!" By the tone of Sasha's voice I can tell the vodka's hitting her. She clings, bouncing up and down, to Connie's arm with one of her own, her other swinging her hoop idly by her side. "I'm so excited!!"

"I know, babe." He smiles at her affectionately, eyes softening and playfully tugs her high, straight ponytail. He flashes me a grin before looking back to her. "Excited enough for a kiss?"

"Always for you." She replies, smile bright as a camera flash as she leans in.

They're disgusting and cute and I love and hate them both for it. Because, as I watch them both grinning into the kiss before we're ushered forward for bag check and to pay cover, I think they've figured out how to be happy.

Sasha'd let Connie kiss her until she forgot all about the thermos full of vodka and clung to him with a contented sigh you hear most people give when they come home after a weary day of work. And Connie had grinned as he did it, smiling down at her with the warmth and softness of falling peacefully asleep. And if that's not love I don't know what is.

 

The room is already pounding, bouncing on its toes. The air itself is a beach ball, tossed into the air with every surging wave of energy. And when it begins to fall, it's hit back upwards again, soaring in a weightless arc again and again and again, thrumming in a buoyant, infectious rhythm.

I can tell he's playing just by the energy. Turning to see Connie and Sasha, I don't realize I'm grinning widely until I find it mirrored on their own faces, bright and open in the flashing multicolored lights.

The Red Bull from earlier is pulsing in my veins. I can feel my muscles and tendons twitching, ready to dive in and to lose myself again.

But first, because I honest to God can't help it, I spare a glance up at the DJ booth. There he is.  Bobbing and pulsing along with the music―or is it pulsing along with him?―his smile is as wide and  luminous as I'd remembered. My heart surges at the sight, at the sound, this anticipation racing up and down my limbs like waves lapping at me, dragging me further out to sea.

Sasha grabs me by the wrist.

"Come on!" She yells, jerking me from my reverie. I see Connie jerk his chin towards the stage as she starts tugging in that direction.

We're nearing the first few rows at the very front off, but Sasha veers sharply to one side so she can avoid concussing anyone with her hoop. She nods affirmatively, hoisting the glowing ring up onto her hips.

This close I can see Marco clearly now, his face lit up by the screen of his laptop and lights on his mixing table. His features are casting into sharp contrast by the glow, outlining the slope of his nose and the cut of his jaw-

Normally, this close, where he can _see me_ if he looks, I would be nervous and withdrawn. But this music is eroding my anxiety like waves surging onto a beach. With each undertow it pulls more and more sand back into its surging depths. I am light and bubbly, the music like champagne in my limbs, lifting them of their own accord, golden and translucent, to match the music.

The music crashes, fading into the bridge consisting of a single strand of bubbling melody. I am weightless in the space it leaves within me and around me. But just as abruptly, another piercing strand strikes through like a pure and glorious beam of light. It bends, skittering down low in sharp angles until it shoots up into a high, ringing note and it is the type of sound that makes you feel fucking _alive_.

The resurgence of the bass hits me again and it is _everything_.

My world is the blinding light of the sun over a midsummer ocean. Waves crash and surge, bright and warm and glittering as they go, cycling over and over and over. I am there now, bubbling and light and golden, like champagne, like all is right and good with the world...

A final wave crashes and sparkling, sparkling... it fades.

"Holy fucking shit!" I exhale and I see Connie, within earshot, grin beside me, his hands alight with the blurring dots of his light gloves' LEDs still churning.

"For real." Connie starts to reply, but the next song has started up, rising around us and I hear Sasha fucking _scream_ in exhilaration.

"FUCK YES!" She screeches again and her arms are already above her head, pulsing and swaying. Her hoop is a blur of light around her hips, her eyes squeezed shut in a portrait of pure excitement.

"Krewella?" I shout to Connie and he just nods knowingly, laughing at Sasha's expression, already jumping into the new rhythm, legs bouncing, hands arcing.

The beat rapidly speeds toward a verse, and I can feel it, leaning forward with the momentum as I dance. The sudden slow, unified sound under which all others cut out leaves me hanging, suspended, and ready for a drop.

 

_Wanna piece of this, wanna- wanna piece of this?_

_Cherry pie, what you- what you gonna make of this?_

_One minute in the back seat you hit the switch,_

 

I can _feel_ the vocals descending into a robotic, grinding splat and it is sexy in the way good music can make you moan. By the time it hits the last line, everything descending into a delicious flatness, electronic and grating, my eyes are screwed shut.

 

_I’m a predator, rapture, **I am killin' it.**_

 

This song is less an ocean, but a whirlpool, swirling in grinding circles. My body feels it switch directions back and forth, spiraling up and down and back up again. Crazy. Fun. Bright. Like long, shining hair shaken loose from a ponytail.

I am flowing circles and spirals of movement that become strings and series of arcs connecting over and over together onto themselves and it is absolutely amazing.

The song slows into the lull before another verse, the beat dissipating into electronic fuzz and I feel a sort of tug, a finger slipped into my loop. It pulls on my circle, widening it into an oval and I glance upwards toward it.

His eyes are bright _,_ _piercing_ against the sweaty cling of his dark hair as he stares at me. I'm being sucked in again, just like last time, my world extending and reaching back to him.

The air is hanging; still, slowly spinning like a spider dangling by a singular thread from its web. It is the the heavy, humid, crawl of a long standing summer heat just before it's broken by a rainstorm.

His smile is brimming, overflowing with fire and certainty, like the sight of me here, my muscles and bones bending and shaking at the whims of his fingertips gives him the power to win wars, to conquer nations.

 

_Like a drug, come on, come on gotta get your fix,_

_Eat your heart out then seal it with a kiss,_

_Aim high, pull the trigger, till I get a hit,_

_I’m a predator, rapture, I am killin' it._

 

My world is the slow build, the quadruple vision layered kaleidoscope of vocals and anticipation and he is still looking at me like he could eat me whole.

I never want it to end.

My circles have now become spheres, the spirals shivering with so much energy they shake into the third dimension. Down and down and down. This build is going to make me _lose my mind_ and he _knows_ it. One of his hands darts out to his mixer, the other to his laptop. He grasps the knobs and taps buttons with the confidence of a divine being surveying his domain. I can tell he's looping this buildup, drawing it out and out and out, eyes like lasers in their focus on me.

Can he see how my world has narrowed? It's dilated like a pupil in the brightness of the sun to this tunnel vision need to descend, rapid and quaking, toward this drop-

But he balances me there, stretching and stretching this moment until there is nothing but this and me and him and I am going _crazy_ -

" _Hold on for me._ " In the chemical storm of adrenaline that is my mind right now, I probably imagined him mouth those words toward me. He holds me like a moth pinned to a cork board on this ledge of sound and light, shaking and trembling and needing it more than water, more than _air_ -

And when the tension finally breaks into the regular, pumping beats again, it's as if my body has been cut from taut wires, dropping limply into the next fluid motion. I see his entire body lurch forward, too, over his table with the force of the music, his grin wide and blinding and glorious.

 _Holy_ **_fuck_** , I think―maybe I yell?―my arms arcing out and around in wide, free motions, jerking in angles here and there. It's as if my skin can’t contain me. I am full to bursting with energy and joy and freedom.

The sound dissipates into swirling underwater currents and I am breathing hard, chest heaving as the crowd screams around me. Sasha's voice, high and ragged, pure unbridled joy pierces above the roar.

The night seems to dissolve into a timeless suspension, a twisting stream of gorgeous, pumping tracks in which he sends me off across the universe, to places I've never visited, places I've never heard of. He paints visions in my mind with synthesized melodies and grinding splats of places and times I'm not sure exist, of emotions and sensations words can't describe.

And all the while he is there, eyes as bright as the sun on a winter morning, sharp and harsh and unyielding. Unwavering in his determination to drag me smiling and screaming for more through this fantasy land, I begin to feel as if he has concocted it just for me.

This is better than anything. Better than _anything_. Because I am singular in the way he as shaped me in this moment, alive and open, thrumming like an exposed wire.

Somewhere in the midst, Connie and Sasha lean in to tell me they're going out for a break―bathroom, drinks, I have no idea. I nod, my tranced-out mind barely able to register the words as they are swallowed by the crowd and lights.

Once again I am alone with the music and him and the vibrating space between us.

We are halfway through a mix and my mind is a hurricane. Swirling water is below me, raining down above, sharp and soft, heavy and light all at once. Pieces bubble to the surface to pull my arms and legs and soul in every seemingly direction at once.

I can't breathe in the most _perfect_ way.

It shifts when I least expect it, flipping my brain upside. I can't understand what I'm hearing, waterlogged, and the storm is everywhere, in every corner of me, _drowning_ me-

And suddenly it's like we've hit the eye of the storm. I'm left swirling, soaking wet, just waiting, _waiting_ for the other side to hit. I can feel it building, a soft rain whispering of the storm's return as it grows in volume and speed and I am vibrating with it.

When it hits, is _heavy_ like a punch to the gut, like a perfectly timed line of poetry, like my soul is bouncing from the crown of my head to the sole of my shoes, ping-ponging up and down, thudding in rhythm.

Looking up, he is _shining_ in the harsh white lights of his laptop and stage lights, a washed out, high contrast angel. His hands are darting in nimble, certain movements across the buttons and knobs and in this moment, if you told me so, I would believe those hands are those that shaped the universe.

The storm cuts out and then...

Oh, and then...

It is like diving into a frigid river on the hottest summer day. Like coming up for air after being submerged nearly past your limit. It is glorious and perfect and I recognize it, oh _God_ do I recognize it. In this moment he is looking at me and I at him and I can _feel_ the rapturous, grateful look on my face, like I am reborn, like he's breathed life into my very existence.

 

_Pull my heart out of my chest_

_Train my mind so I'll forget..._

 

He is looking back at me like this stupid expression on my face is the most precious gift I could ever offer him. Like my enjoyment, my gratitude, my acknowledgement are more valuable than all the precious gems this world could hold.

The song is _rapture_. It is full of white light and beauty. Screams rip from my throat, hoarse and wild and untamed when the drops come, resonating through me because I can't contain them. There are no barriers to me anymore behind which to do so, no part of me possessing the ability to contain or separate or divide. I am limitless.

 

_Mouth to mouth I breath you in_

_Swallow down your jagged sin_

 

I haven't danced like this in...  _fuck_ , I don't think I've ever danced like this, like I am weightless and free. I am above the cloud line and everything is white and blue and white and gold. I am a sea of clouds alight with the sun above them.

I am floating as if he has commanded gravity itself to release its hold on me. Because in this space, in this domain where his every whim becomes a law of physics, it can almost be true.

 

_Come and get it one more time, woah_

_If you wanna lose your mind, woah_

 

I never want this to end.

I want to be wrapped around his finger, slick with sweat and heaving for breath and so, _so_ _alive_ forever.

But the song trails off, wispy clouds behind a faraway airplane in a sky so blue it hurts...and it is over. A filler track, lulling and thumping methodically, takes its place.

"Hey everybody!" His voice is everywhere, rebounding off the walls and floor like the laser beams still piercing through the darkness. "That's end of my set!"

There are groans of disapproval, the crowd murmuring in the transition.

"But don't worry guys, I'm turning it over to the next DJ―awesome guy, he's gonna take good care of you for the rest of the night. You guys were amazing, we were on _fire_ in here!"

It's like a spotlight is on me, hot and blinding.

"Thanks so much for being a great crowd! I'm Marco Polo and I'll see you back here tomorrow night!" He raises one fist, a slim tan arm and curves of muscle slashed at the end by dark bracelets, and calls out to us. "Marco!"

There is a roar, a wave of sound as nearly two hundred hands rise in the air, some in fists, some in hearts, some in peace signs, and shout in beautiful unison.

" _Polo!_ "

He smiles then. And it's the kind of contented, inspired, exhausted smile of someone who's just finished a long race, just had amazing sex, just reached the summit of a mountain―hair damp and shining, eyes bright, chest heaving.

I don't think I've ever seen anything as beautiful as that smile he gives then.

His hand still raised in a peace sign, my eyes follow him walk off stage. I don't even bother paying attention to the guy who strides on to replace him, the music shivering up around us again as he introduces himself to the crowd.

Slowly beginning to come back to my senses I feel groggy, as if waking from a dream. Finding my muscles aching and mouth parched, I decide now would probably be a good time to find Sasha and Connie. Now that I think about it they'd been gone for a while.

Making my way through the dance floor toward the lobby, I dodge careless arms and jutting feet, nearly missing being hit with a light ball being swung in bright, sporadic arcs.

Luckily, the lobby lights are dimmed and merciful on my eyes. I take the immediate right into a side area that serves as a bar on Fridays. Club Karanese had made the executive decision that Saturdays are crazy enough without adding alcohol.

I immediately spot Sasha and Connie sitting with another couple at a low table flanked by a booth on one side and chairs on the other. Sasha is giggling so hard she looks like she's going to fall over. Connie's face is bright with laughter. The other girl is a little freckled redhead, her hair pulled back into a ponytail and the guy next to her with a hand on her knee is tall and sporting a crew cut.

"Jeaaaaaaaaaaan!" Sasha practically squeals, attempting to jump up to run and greet me, but instead tripping and falling to her knees in another fit of giggles. Remaining on the floor, she looks back at the new people, pointing at me with a slow, unsteady hand. "This is Jean! The Jean I was telling you about. We love Jean, don't we Connie? Jean's awesome. Everyone says so." Her head rolls lazily back in my direction. "Jean, you're awesome and we love you."

"Love you too, Sasha." I reply, stepping forward to help her up just as Connie does. From the blush lighting his cheeks and the groggy look in his eyes I can tell he's had a few himself.

"She's a cute drunk, isn't she?" He asks and I nod solemnly. "Cute drunk, cute girl, cute everything." He adds, mumbling to himself as I help him bring Sasha back to sit down.

"Hannah and Franz are our new friends, J-Zhhh Zhean. Ha, your name buzzes." With a snort, another fit of laughter consumes her and I flick a small wave over at them.

"Nice to meet you."

"Same," Franz, apparently, replies, returning the wave. "Sasha wouldn't shut up about you."

"Sasha doesn't shut up in general when she's drunk."

"Everyone is so wonderful and beautiful and interesting and I just love them." Sasha sighs from the couch and Hannah laughs lightly. "Jean? You're really cute..."

"Hey now." Connie warns, teasingly.

"Really, Connie, look at him. Why is Jean single? Bitches should be _linin' up_ to tap that." She slurs and swipes her hand, trying to hit my ass but misses.

"Not bitches, Sasha, bros. Bros should be lining up." Connie corrects after another swig of whatever dark amber liquid is in the glass he's sloshing around. But suddenly his eyes light up. "Besides he's got the hots for the DJ!"

"Whaaat?" Sasha demands, voice rising comically high. Her head swivels slowly back to him like an uncoordinated snake.

"I told you that in confidence!" I retort, not too truly annoyed but, come on, bro. Not cool.

"Drunk." He replies in defense, pointing at himself. "Can't control it."

"The DJ? Marco Polo? He is pretty cute." Hannah admits. I sigh dramatically, rolling my eyes.

"DJs aside, I'm beat now that his set is over so I don't know how much longer I wanna stick around." I say. "But, uh, you two don't look like you're in any shape to drive any time soon, so..."

I trail off, eyes bugging out of my head when, who should stroll into the bar other than the fucking vision himself. He's conversing tiredly but passionately with who I think I recognize as the light guy.

He stops, mid sentence upon seeing me. I see his eyes widen before narrowing in a motion I'm more familiar with on the focusing toggle of a camera or the narrowing adjustment of a rifle scope flash. After a moment, he turns back to the guy, continuing.

"All right, I bet they'll have some. Thanks, Samuel."

"No problem, Marco."

He strides toward the bar at the far end of the room and I know I'm watching him, know Connie and Sasha are watching me watch him, but I can't help it. After a quick word with the girl bartending, she produces a large bottle of Gatorade.  Marco smiles gratefully, and quickly opens it to take a swig.

"What are you doing?" Connie hisses in my ear, apparently having snuck up so close I jump when I hear the words. "Go talk to him you giant dweeb."

And with the residual confidence of the "rave state" coursing through my veins I somehow swallow down my anxiety and do so. I sit down numbly on the far end of the bar next to him.

"Hey." I greet, infinitely grateful that my voice sounds somewhat steady, albeit a bit ragged. "Great show tonight."

He turns to me and up close like this he is wonderfully human. I can see the flush still pulled to the surface of his skin, the sweat clamming on his skin, the redness around the edges of his eyes. And it is all just was wonderful as the shining vision he'd been on stage.

"Hey!" He greets back, voice lifting in real recognition and excitement. "Jean! I was so glad to see you again tonight. You didn't disappoint."

I laugh and _fucking hell_ I sound like a schoolgirl.

"Well, I wasn't going to miss a show when the last one got cut off."

He shakes his head, smiling.

"No, no, I mean your dancing. I told myself if I saw you in the crowd, you'd be my pick again and-" He pauses to take another gulp of the Gatorade. "You had me racing to keep up with you. You're a challenge."

"N-No way!" I sputter. "That was-  _you_ were-" I punch out an anxious, hysterical breath, settling on. "I can't even tell you how amazing that was."

"I'm really glad. It felt amazing from my end too so I'm glad it was a two way street." I shiver as I notice him surveying me from the corner of his eyes, elbows resting on the bar. His eye shift then, taking notice of Connie and Sasha behind me who are cackling loudly together. "Those your friends?"

"Yeah." I say, sighing. "They sure are."

"I remember them. The hoop girl and the light gloves boy. Really nice, happy energy. I like it." He states as if commenting on a particularly beautifully bloomed flower or the way the wind has eroded a rock formation just so.

"They're great. Though-" I add, "-not so great when they get drunk. And are your ride home. And make you wait around for them to sober up." He laughs at that and the way his nose scrunches makes my lips tug into a smile as well.

"Going home so early?" He asks, tentative edge to his voice. His finger slides back and forth methodically through the condensation now gathering on the side of his bottle.

"You tired me out, man." I laugh, playfully hitting him in the shoulder and I can't believe I did that, what has gotten into me? What is this guy _doing to me_?

"Same to you." He replies. "I'm absolutely beat. They were out of Gatorade backstage so I had to go on a mission. Samuel―the lights guy, really nice, really good eye for atmosphere―he pointed me in the, ah, right direction."

There is a heaviness on the last two words. And paired with a subtle change in the focus of his eyes it sends electricity down my spine.

"Anyway," he continues, "I was gonna head home after this too. Where do you live? Maybe I could give you a ride so you don't have to wait around for your friends to sober up."

My mind bursts into excited, internal chatter when I realize what this means.

"Uh- Birch Apartments, down past the college." I mutter, fingers toying with the hem of my tank top.

"Wait, the Birch Apartments down on Big River Ave?"

"Mhm."

"You realize that this was fate, right?" He asks, delighted, and I laugh.

"Why?"

"Because we happen to live in the same apartment complex." His grin is blinding and my heart settles calmly within me at the sight. I snort.

"Looks like I've got a ride home then, huh?"

"If you're okay with that. Strange man you barely know taking you home and all." He laughs, taking another long drink of his Gatorade.

"You're not too strange." I say, watching his throat bob. Swallowing, he grins.

"Glad you feel that way. All right." He screws the lid back on the bottle. "I'll grab my stuff. You tell your friends what the plan is and I'll meet you in the lobby in a few?"

"Sure."

The minute he's out of sight I practically leap across the room to Sasha and Connie. My lungs feel as if they are the size of peas.

"How'd it go?" Connie inquires.

"I'm going home with him." I wheeze, and then, realizing by the looks on their faces what I'd said, I backpedal, stuttering. "N-no, no, I mean he's giving me a ride home since you two are drunk off your asses and we live in the same place."

"Maybe you can seduce him up to your apartment!" Sasha chimes in, waggling her eyebrows at me. "Time to turn on the charm, Jean-y boy!"

"I don't-!" I nearly shout, but let out a huff through my nose instead. With a quick glance at the door I lean in, lowering my voice. "I'm not gonna sleep with him, Sasha."

"Why not?!" Her voice shatters any volume cues I'd been carefully trying to lay down. "You're both young and hot. Get it while it's fresh!"

"Besides, he looked into you too." Connie adds, arm stretching around Sasha's shoulders. "I doubted, to be honest, but-"

I swat at the back of his head and he lets out a small, "Ow! Hey!" in protest.

"I'll text you guys when I get home and I want you doing the same, okay? If it gets too late and you're not okay to drive and don't have another option, text me. I'll take a cab out here to get you."

"We'll make the newbies do it." Is Connie's counterargument.

"Yes! The newbies! Oh, Franzah, Hanz, have I told you about our newbies? Oh my _God_ they are-"

"Don't worry about it, Jean." Connie interrupts Sasha's drunken tirade and Franz and Hannah's fit of laughter at the name mix up. "We'll be fine. But yeah, text us. And the newbies just in case. So someone sober knows where you are."

"Will do." I say, snapping a quick two-finger salute. "Have fun guys."

Marco is leaning sinuously against a wall in the lobby when I make my way back to it. His head lifts expectantly, but patiently when he sees me, as if he'd been waiting, perfectly content for me to take my sweet time until I was ready.

He has a small black backpack over his shoulder, one hand on one strap and the other clutching his half finished bottle of Gatorade and a set of keys.

"Where's all your stuff?" I ask, walking over to him.

"Oh, since I'm playing tomorrow too, Erwin lets me store it here overnight on weekends like this," he says, hefting his backpack higher on his shoulder. "You got everything?" He asks.

I nod, patting my pockets for wallet, phone, and keys for a third time since leaving the dance floor.

"Let's go, then."

 

He leads us outside and around the side of the building to a section of the parking lot. We pass a sign bolted to the concrete reading "Employee Parking Only" as I follow him to a rundown little station wagon. It's kind of nice to see he has a beat up old car just like Sasha and Connie.

After I hear the thud of the automatic lock, I climb into the passenger's seat. I then watching as he, albeit a bit clumsily, ducks into the driver's side, falling with a "thwump" into the cushion. The seat is pushed back noticeably far to accommodate his long legs. Once we're both settled and buckled, with a chiming clatter of keys, the engine roars to life. He turns to me then, gesturing with his chin to the old thick video iPod I find sitting in the cupholder between us.

"So, care to spin the wheel of fate?" He asks, and I blink at him.

"I didn't know these things still existed. Wait, did you- did you mean put on shuffle?" His smile grows wider and a bit mischievous at my words, nodding. "You sure you don't have anything incriminating?"

"I already told you last weekend, I'm used to putting my embarrassing tastes out in the open." He replies, chuckling as I pick up the hefty device. I wait for it to blink on as he starts to back the car out of the parking space.

Seems like a big deal for a _DJ_ to let me put his iPod on shuffle.

"...You're trusting me, aren't you?" I blurt out, and he stills, turning to me, the car sideways in the lot.

" _You're_ trusting _me_ , aren't you?" He parrots back with a smirk, shifting the car back into drive. We pull down the lane of cars and out onto the street and I simply shrug in response. I duck my head to let my bangs hide my face as I start fiddling with his iPod now glowing in my hand.

"You really want me to shuffle, huh?" I ask instead and he laughs, high and genuine.

"Go right ahead. Let's see what we get." And I'm struck by the way he says "we"―like it's a thing he's always said. Like we've been comfortably riding along busy streets with the light of street lamps and neon signs rippling over us in dark cars together our entire lives.

I let out a breath and it's like the steadying exhale before pulling the trigger of a gun. And then a surge of soft vocals of slow drums and chiming flows around us like water, crystal and blue.

And out of the corner I can see his eyes flick down to the iPod in my hands, up to my face, and then back to the road in a matter of seconds. A wide smile stretches across his face and he whispers.

"Perfect."

 

_Give me release_

_Let the waves of time and space surround me_.

 

I don't know if he's talking about the song or the moment or what, but I understand it, staring out the windshield at the black pavement ahead of us. The lights of the city and night life contrast sharply against dark intimacy of the car where there is nothing between us but darkness and music.

 

_Cause I need room to breathe_

_Let me float back to the place you found me._

_I'll be okay._

 

We sit like that, the music slowly blossoming into a gorgeous mix of soft blue satin fluttering over the cold cut of steel.

"Who's remix is this?" I ask eventually, clicking the iPod's center button to make the dimmed screen light up again. ""Nightmare House"? Never heard of them."

"Stumbled across this on Soundcloud one day. Fell in love. It's not perfect, some things are a bit off, but I really adore it."

"No, this is really great."

He lets out a small laugh.

"Glad you like it. The wheel of fate didn't disappoint after all." He reaches out his right hand to the stereo controls, sliding the treble and bass down a bit. "So I told you a lot about myself last weekend, now what about you? I've seen you dance but I don't know anything about your life."

"There's not much to say, to be honest." I admit, pulling a hand through my hair. "I just work a crappy computer sales job in town full time. This-" I gesture to the iPod, to my clothes and glowsticks, to him, "-is what I really do."

"No school?" He inquires and I sigh. At my reaction, his brow furrows in concern. "I- If I'm prying you don't have to talk about it."

"No, you're not prying. I just- I dropped out. There were a lot of reasons. I'd get really sick in the mornings sometimes when I had a lot to do or on test days. Failed a few classes that way." He's looking at me sideways and I try not to dwell on the expression on his face. A churning sea beneath a calm surface. "Money, too." I rush on. "Lots of stuff. So I just started working full time. I'd like to go back but, yeah..." I trail off, finishing lamely. "I'm not too interesting."

"I think you're plenty interesting." His eyes are still trained out the front windshield. "Full to bursting with interesting things, actually." I snort, rubbing my sweaty palms on my pants discreetly. "I'm serious." He persists.

"Yeah, well, most people wouldn't agree with you. I'm a college drop-out who goes to raves. I don't know what I really want to do anymore. Most people would say I'm not where I should be. I'm twenty-three and I'm not getting any closer to who I should be." Teachers, advisers, the voices of my parents―they all echo behind the words, twisting my stomach into knots.

I don't know why I'm telling him this, making myself seem even _more_ unappealing when he said he thought I was interesting.

"I always hated that phrase." He says, voice a little low. ""Should be," just-" He shakes his head. "It's okay to change your approach to things in response to newness in your life." There is a strange quality in his voice that I can't quite place, drifting somewhere in the shadowy space between sympathy and encouragement.

"What do you mean?" I ask.

He rolls his shoulders absently, taking in a considering breath before speaking.

"Well- say I never played different music. That I never changed my style little by little over time because of encounters and hardships and shifting personal tastes, simply because I wanted people to know exactly what and how I played at any given moment. To make sure I was playing what other people wanted to hear all the time." His eyes dart over to mine, making sure I'm listening. "Does that sound exciting at all to you?"

"No. Comforting maybe," I relent, "but not exciting."

"Exactly. But comforting for whom, though? Not you, really. It's for everyone on the outside. Spend your whole life trying to be who and what you "should be," to be easily palatable to everyone around you, and you'll never fully settle within yourself. You'll be fragmented and repressed and, frankly, very unhappy. Because there will always be part of you pulling away towards where your heart and your soul want to be. That's as true for music as it is for life. You don't have to cling to things that no longer fit in your life simply for "shoulds." Who you "should be"..." He scoffs, shaking his head. "Life is fluid. Identity is fluid. _Cohesive_ identity, however, I've found is usually for the benefit of other people. We're human. We weren't meant for boxes like that."

He sighs, shaking his head, before continuing.

"I guess what I'm trying to say is if you take a step back and look at the entirety of yourself, it's _okay_ for it to not make sense. To be in flux. You're allowed to be contradictory, to be incomprehensible, to be many different things at once. And to be all of that loudly and unapologetically."

"Sounds like it's scary." I say softly, the quiet hum of the car distant against the flood of music popping like dissipating bubbles in the air around us.

"It is." He replies, turning his head briefly in my direction. His smile is encouraging and warm in the darkness between us. "But it also sounds like  _living_ to me."

 

Pulling up at the apartment complex, the headlights burn brightly against the black pavement of the parking lot. We gather our things, and a small beep from Marco accidentally bumping the horn with his elbow almost makes jump out of my skin. He just laughs at my response, low and comforting in the darkness of the car.

As we walk together toward the last buildings, past C, towards D, he glances at me. The dark, warm summer night seems to be pressing close on our bodies and he asks incredulously:

"Are we seriously are in the same building? Don't tell me you're on the second floor."

I shake my head.

"Third floor, represent."

As we climb the stairs of building, my heart is hammering so loudly I'm _sure_ he can hear it.

The second floor landing is lit by the small overhead lamp, a moth dully clinking against its Plexiglas covering every few seconds. I glance up, watching it flutter as he unlocks his door. He doesn't seem to notice it. Cracking the door open, he pauses and then turns to me.

"I'll see you tomorrow, won't I? At the club?" He asks, eyes hopeful and glittering in the reflected light of the lamp. The fluttering moth is casting dancing shadows across his speckled cheeks, casting invisible patters amongst the freckles there that I want to trace with my fingertips.

"Of course." I reply, voice soft in the quiet of the landing. It sounds like too sincere an answer for the question he asked but he also seems to understand its gravity, nodding.

"I'm really glad. Something about you just..." He sighs, as if in resolution, "I'm a better DJ with you there," he finishes, words heavy like stones dropping in water with echoing splashes. The ripples spread out from them, the waves undulating with meaning, crashing into each other as they expand outward around us and it is too much.

"You're a good DJ regardless-" I start to protest. "Like, honestly, I-"

His hand darting out to wrap around my forearm, firm and warm, silences me. Suddenly it's as if a piece of me had been missing, aching and empty, but I hadn't felt the hollow until he'd touched me and I was whole once more.

"Jean." He says my name firmly, weighted, his eyes intense. His hand squeezes my wrist as if trying to burn the words into my skin. "You make me a better DJ. I hope you'll come tomorrow." He eases back, hand slipping away and something inside me cries out, protesting the separation. "But get some sleep so I can pull out all the stops then, deal?"

"Deal." I reply softly.

"All right, good night, Jean."

"Good night."

The door clicks shuts behind him, and I'm alone on the landing, left with only my thoughts and the buzzing and clinking of a lone moth, throwing itself with reckless abandon towards the brightest light it can find.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [fanfic/podfic blog](http://zoe-bug.tumblr.com/) | [personal](http://xiexiecaptain.tumblr.com/) | [twitter](https://twitter.com/xiexiecaptain)
> 
> [CS inspo tag](http://zoe-bug.tumblr.com/tagged/cs-inspiration) on my blog if that's something you're into C:


	5. Strike a Match

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And it is in this moment, with this music thrumming through my veins because he placed it there so carefully, so precisely, that I realize I adore him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the long wait for this chapter, there were a lot of factors. Mostly I wanted to plan the next few arcs and various plot threads in more detail since a lot of that hangs on stuff that starts in these first chapters so the groundwork needed to all be laid carefully so the plot could happen.
> 
> But I'm back now! Monthly reminder that I'm actually really not at all funny and I realize this so I hope you can cringe your way through my jokes. HA.
> 
> ((Also, quick warning, this chapter contains homophobic/transphobic slurs.))
> 
> SONG LIST:  
> Jean's listening to this again:  
> ["Language" - Porter Robinson (Nightmare House Remix)](https://soundcloud.com/nightmarehouse/language)
> 
> Played during the rave:  
> 1\. ["Troublemaker" - Virtual Riot](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OBI_9KmGmKk)  
> 2\. ["Bonfire" - Knife Party](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e-IWRmpefzE)  
> 

The next morning comes with a splitting headache.

Groaning, I roll off my bed and wince at the way the midday sun stabs into my bedroom like piercing knives. Stumbling to the bathroom, I end up rooting around my disaster zone of a medicine cabinet for some aspirin. But foggy morning brain, paired with the disorientation of pain, leaves me searching through the whole thing three times before I'm certain I'm completely out.

My eyes squint against the harsh light still streaming into my bedroom when I slump back, I yank the blinds closed irritably before grabbing my phone from the bedside table. I slide its lockscreen and goddamn did the brightness have to be turned all the way on?

It's almost 11:30 AM which is impressively early for a Saturday by my standards. Especially having been out last night. Then again, I did skip out early after Marco's set. Or maybe it's just what feels like a wedge slowly being pounded into my skull that woke me up.

Blearily, I tug on a pair of old boxers and jeans, a ratty plain t-shirt, and pull on a beanie over my unruly bed head. Good enough for a run to the store, I think. Not like I'm trying to impress anyone.

Wait. Fuck.

The foggy sluggishness of my thoughts suddenly accelerates with the panic that shoots through me. Giving myself another once over, I pull a face before clapping my hands over my eyes, dragging them down slowly.

I sigh loudly, seriously reconsidering the store trip.

This whole "living in the same apartment complex as the hot freckled DJ" thing is going to turn me into a hermit.

However, the throbbing against the inside of my skull convinces me it'd be best not to end up dying alone in my apartment rolling around in pain. So eventually I put on my armor in the form of my headphones and charged iPod, grab my wallet, keys, and most importantly sunglasses. Locking the door behind me, my legs aching from last night with every movement, I make my way down the stairs to the ground floor and head toward the bus stop.

 

The bus ride is hellish.

Loud people, crying kids, cramped quarters―just bad shit everywhere. Every bump and pothole in the road sends a spike of pain piercing into my brain as the bus flies over them like it's gonna get scored by washed up gymnasts on the sidelines. On top of it all, my good for nothing e-Cig had run out of juice at the bus stop and I'd chucked it with maybe more force than was necessary into the trash can, making an old dude jump a little.

By the time I get off in downtown Rose at the stop nearest the CVS, I am in a seriously pissy mood. God have mercy on the poor fucker that decides to mess with me today. It's gonna take a lot of recharging when I get home to feel well enough to go out tonight.

But, to be honest, my mood is actually a bit comforting. Because when I'm pissed at everyone around me I don't feel like vibrating out of existence I'm so worried.

I'm not an angry person, I promise. Sometimes it's just easier to be pissed off than afraid.

The store is playing some repetitive upbeat tune over the speakers that gratingly digs its way under my skin. Just when I think my mood can't get any worse. Pop music.

I'm well aware by now that my default expression is a little intimidating. So I'm not even surprised when, in the state of mind I'm in, a small mousy girl in the medicine aisle ahead of me glances up, eyes wide. She lets out an unconscious squeak before scurrying away down another isle. I just roll my eyes, scanning the shelves for the aspirin section.

Shuffling over to it, I scan the rows with the long experience of quickly determining the cheapest-for-quantity variety and I grab the bottle of off-brand pills from the shelf.

Mission accomplished. Now I can just go home and-

"Get a load of this kid." The voice is low and gruff, arrogant, and it makes me pause.

"U-uhm, c-can I help you?" The reply is a bit higher and- hold on a second, I know that voice.

"What the fuck? Are you even a boy or a girl?" A third voice demands.

"I-I-"

I round the corner, following the voices, to find none other than Armin cornered by two bulky dude-bros with their stupid snapbacks and surfer tanks. Armin is cutching an eyeliner pen and a pack of eyeshadow in one hand, eyes wide, staring up at the two fearfully.

"We asked if you were a boy or a girl, faggot." One of the guys sneers.

Line. fucking. crossed.

"Hey, asswipe!" I exclaim, making my way down the aisle. Head still pounding, my scowl is probably dialed up to 'hellfire and brimstone' levels. "Leave them the fuck alone."

They look up at me, a bit startled. I shove my way in front of Armin, facing them, blocking them from the small blonde.

"J-Jean?!" They squeak behind me, and I tilt my head back to them, murmuring quietly.

"I got this, Armin." I turn back to face the towering figures, both at least a head taller than me and probably half again as wide. "You better shut your damn mouth, bro."

"Hey, man, we were just having some fun." One says, minutely backpedaling but still holding his ground. "Loosen up."

"I'll loosen up your jaw if you don't get the fuck out of here right now." I reply, deadly serious. I see his jaw clench. My hands curl into fists, equal parts out of anger and to conceal their shaking. My heart seems to be vibrating in my chest, the icy thrill of adrenaline shooting through me, fingertips suddenly cold.

"Jesus, what's your problem, dude?" The other asks. "We were just curious."

"No, you're homophobic, transphobic pieces of shit and you need to get the fuck away from my friend before I smash your noses in." The look at each other and I darken my glare, taking a step closer to them. "Now!"

"Fine! Christ, dude, chill." One says, hands raising in surrender before he turns and pushes the other back up the aisle with a hushed, "C'mon."

My death glare stays fixed to their sickeningly heteronormative backs, not budging until I'm sure they're out of the store and on to the street. The minute I do, the adrenaline fading, I feel the pounding headache return with a vengeance and I wince.

Hearing Armin let out a shaky breath behind me, I turn to them.

"Hey, you all right?" I ask.

"Y-yeah." They say breathily. Armin reaches a hand up to run it calmingly over the top of their hair, reaching back to tighten the half ponytail they've tied their hair back into. "Thanks to you. I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't showed up."

"You would have been fine. You're tougher than you think."

They just smile sadly and shake their head, layered necklaces jingling against a grey tank top and each other as they do so. "I never know what to do about that stuff when it happens. It's really scary."

I see their hands are shaking so I grab the makeup from them.

"Let me get those." I tell them, adjusting the stuff in my hand, bottle of aspirin rattling.

"J-Jean, you don't have to-" They start to splutter, but I ignore them, already striding towards the checkout. "I was just taking a study break, honestly." They say, jogging up behind me. "I'm camped out at the coffee shop down the street to get some homework done before tonight." I stand a ways away from the self-checkout scanners while the little old lady in front of my finishes feeding in her coupons.

"I thought school didn't start until the end of the month." I say.

"Well, I was in the summer program." They explain. "That's why I moved up here early. But it ends next week so I have some free time before the fall semester."

"Smarty pants." I tease, stepping up to the self-checkout and beginning to scan the items.

"What I meant is, if you're free, come back with me to the shop. I'll buy you lunch." I look down at them, blue eyes bright and hopeful. Looking away, I fish out my wallet and sigh.

"Armin, you don't need to thank me for being a decent human being." I say quietly, swiping my card.

"I'm not." They say. I watch the processing dots blink on the screen. "I ran into a friend in town and now I want to grab lunch with him because I could use the company while studying is all."

I glance over at them, a smirk crossing my face. Just shaking my head, I laugh, tapping the touchscreen a few times and gabbing the bag of stuff.

"Fine. Just let me pop a few aspirin when we get there." I say, rubbing my temple in a futile attempt to ease the aching. "Woke up with a wicked headache this morning."

We file back out onto the street, Armin perfectly accessorized and looking like they pranced out of a street fashion magazine, and me with the only look I have perfected in my over two decades of life: the "just rolled out of bed, barely functioning" variety.

"So you mentioned tonight." I start as we stride down the street together, Armin's heavy black boots clunking on the concrete. "That means you're going?"

"Definitely." There's a strange decisiveness to the words and I glance over at them. "I kinda need to just dance and not think about stuff for a while."

"I get that. Are you, uh-" I'm about to ask if they're okay, but I think better of it and bite my tongue. "What about the other two?" I ask instead.

Armin places an index finger thoughtfully on their chin.

"I think Eren wants to, but I'm not sure if... and Mikasa, well..." Their face tightens, the glittering life in their blue eyes fading. It makes my chest hurt. "It's, ah, I'll tell you over lunch."

"Sure." I reply as Armin holds the door to the little cafe open to me.

They leads us, weaving through tables, to a booth at the back of the shop. I spot a laptop and stack of notebooks spread across the table there beside a nearly empty coffee cup and water glass.

"Thanks for watching my stuff, Mina!" Armin calls to the small, dark haired barista across the shop and she just waves back, smiling.

I sit down across from him and Armin shuffles his books off to the side, pausing for a moment when I dig the aspirin out of my bag.

"You're still wearing the bracelet I gave you." They say. I look down at my wrist.

"Oh, well, yeah. Of course I am."

Armin just smiles and goes back to clearing the space. I slide their water glass over to swallow a dose of aspirin as Armin order us coffee and sandwiches.

 

"So how'd last night go, really?" Armin asks, the gleam having returned to their eyes. "Sasha and Connie came home without you. Said you went home with the DJ." I groan, rolling my eyes and make a mental note to sock both of them the next time I see them.

"Ok, look-" I start but Armin just leans in, eyebrows raised.

"Did you guys hook up?"

"Would everyone stop that?" I implore, covering my face with my hands. "We just live in the same apartment complex, is all, so he drove me home." Armin just continues staring at me expectantly, expression unchanging. "And my apparently infamous dry spell continues." I add flatly, glaring.

"I don't believe you." Armin states.

"I did not sleep with him!" I exclaim a bit too loudly, drawing the attention of a few people at neighboring tables. Armin just smirks, amused, and raises their hands in surrender.

"Ok, ok." They relent. "But you're interested, right? That's what Connie said."

"It's- I, well- Can we not talk about Marco?" I implore, sighing.

"All right. All I'm saying is if you need a wingkid tonight, I'm totally down for that."

I roll my eyes, bluntly changing the subject. "How was your little reunion with the other two?"

"Good." They state simply, but there's a slight heaviness to the word that makes me sit up a little straighter.

"Everything okay?"

"O-Oh, yeah, they're both fine." They start, smudging the ring of water left behind by the glass on the tabletop. "Mikasa was just a little shaky last night."

"That's to be expected, I guess."

"Yeah..." Armin nods, pausing, eyes trained on the way the lights glitter off the water now smudged along the table. "She just- well, we fought a little."

"Fought?"

They nod, falling silent, and I avert my eyes. The silence between us seems to be screaming for me to break it but I can't think of anything to say.

The girl―Mina apparently―arrives with our coffee and sandwiches, setting them on the table in the seemingly vast space between us. The only sounds breaking the quiet are the clattering of the plates and mugs and Mina's soft voice as she tells us to let her know if we need anything.

"You know," Armin starts after a minute, hand wrapping around the warm coffee mug, "I just felt so..." they hesitate, searching for the word. I pick up my sandwich and take a bite. "-useless when it happened. Because I was living so far away from her. I just wish I was more of comfort to her then."

I put the sandwich back down. The guilt bubbles like acid in my stomach and sinks heavily onto my chest, suffocating me.

"I understand. I was- I was at the party. When it happened." I manage between clenched teeth. "I should have- I know it's useless to think like that, but knowing she was going through that while I was in the same building is just- I just- I was so drunk. We were _all_ so drunk and no one-" I break off, feeling the bite of my fingernails on the pads of my palms.

"Eren said the exact same thing." Armin mutters quietly. "But she doesn't want you guys to blame yourselves. The only one at fault here is that scum who put crap in her drink. Rape is never anyone's fault but the rapist, you know that."

"Yeah." I exhale, biting my lip.

"And Mikasa is tougher than that. She's a survivor, Jean, she always has been." Armin's eye are still downcast, still trained on their untouched food. "It's only been a year and look how much progress she's made. The fact that she goes out is amazing. She's been doing well in therapy and everything. But I think what happened last weekend kinda triggered her. She's been really on edge. So I don't blame her for snapping at me at all, I just-"

I just bite my lip and nod. The steam from Armin's coffee swirls up above the mug. Their eyes follow its wispy curl as they talk but their gaze seems to pass through it, as if far away.

"I was just trying to help make her feel better last night. Tell her it was all right to be scared about what was going on. That everyone feels unsteady and weak sometimes and she-" They're the one to bite their lip this time. And when they finally look up at me again the deep blue of their eyes shines with tears. "She said "You wouldn't understand, Armin, you're a _boy_.""

The silence that falls is heavy and I let out a breath.

"Oh, Armin." I whisper.

"It feels like I'm back in high school again." They bite out, voice cracking, blinking rapidly against welling tears. " _God,_ I thought things would get better when I moved here." Their voice takes on a desperate quality as they rush on. "And I'm not blaming Mikasa, I'm not, I promise. She has every right to feel scared and defensive but I just- I'm so tired of feeling like- like nothing about me really _counts_." Brow furrowed, jaw clenched, the next words are bitten out in a harsh whisper. "I'm such an inconvenience."

"Armin, hey." I say. "You're not an inconvenience."

"Aren't I?" They demand with a dark, bitter laugh. "I don't _fit_ into how people see the world, Jean. To even include my identity, people need to make exceptions and reword things. Wherever I go I'm always the "special case" and the "other" and I'm just sick of hating myself for it." They swallow so thickly it seems to hurt. Jaw clenching, their eyes fall to their lap. When they speak again it is small and broken. "Why can't I just be normal?"

"You _are_." I say firmly because I know that tone, know that expression, know the tension in the way Armin's hands curl in on themselves. Because I've felt it from the other side too many times. I never want anyone to have to feel that darkness eating away at them from the inside. "You _are_ normal."

"I'm not." Their reply is tiny and choked.

"Hey." I reach across the table, laying one of my hands across theirs and squeezing gently. When they don't jerk it away, I continue. "You're allowed to know who you are. And who that is deserves just as much respect and allowance as anyone else. You have to live true to yourself or you'll regret it the rest of your life. Everyone is struggling with things. Mikasa is in a fragile place right now and we need to give her support and some lenience. But Armin, never, ever apologize for doing anything that makes you feel more like who you are." They look up and meet my gaze, eyes wide. I smile and add softly. "Someone told me that recently and I guess it meant a lot so I'm passing the message along."

Their smile is small and watery but genuine.

"...If you tell me it was that DJ I'm going laugh really hard."

"Shut the fuck up." I deadpan and they snort. The sound seems to breath warmth into the space between us.

"I'm sorry." They say, sniffing. "You're just kinda funny when you're crushing really hard."

I groan. "Is it that obvious?"

Armin bites their lip against a badly suppressed grin and nods.

"Blatantly. I bet you've been listening to that song all week, haven't you?"

I look down, my face burning and just mutter. "Krewella is really catchy, ok?"

With traces of tears still glittering on their eyelashes, Armin throws their head back and laughs.

 

By the time I'm jogging up the stairs to my apartment, my headphone cord bobbing with the motion, my headache has thankfully subsided. When I reach the second floor landing, I pause, eyes drifting to Marco's door. Closing my eyes, I can still feel the soft glow of the lamp overhead warming my skin like the sun's caress. I can still hear the moth quietly buzzing against the glass, can still feel that strong, cool hand on my wrist.

_"Jean... you make me a better DJ. I hope you'll come tomorrow."_

I bring my hands up, smacking my face a few times to try to pull myself out of this fog. Jesus, I need to get my shit together before I fuck things up more than usual.

It's not helping that the music playing through my headphones, clear and flowing, brings with it flashes of memories. The dark intimacy of Marco's car. Streetlights rippling over us. They way Marco's lips had shaped the word "we."

I climb the last flight of stairs to the third floor landing in a daze. As look down to fish my keys from the depths of my pocket, I notice the corner of a piece of paper poking out from under my door.

Automatically the worst conclusions are at the forefront of my mind, as tends to happen with me. I forgot to pay rent, something caught on fire, I was robbed. By the time unlock the door, open it, and stoop to grab the paper, my hands are bit shaky.

But, to my surprise, it's a handwritten note, the small letters blocky and slanted. Eyes drifting automatically to the name at the bottom, I do a double take before forcing myself to go back to the beginning and read slowly.

 _Jean,_ it reads, hey, _I left to go get set up at Karanese. I knocked on your door to see if you wanted to go grab lunch before I took off but it looks like you were already out. Sorry I missed you. I forgot to ask for yours last night, but here's my number. See you tonight. -Marco_

I've whirled into my apartment and am practically hyperventilating with my back against the shut door before I can really understand how I got there. The note  is still clutched in my sweating palm.

Before I lose my nerve, I suck in a deep breath. I don't let it out until I've quickly jabbed the series of numbers scrawled below the note into my phone contacts and shot him a quick text.

 

 **From Jean:** [it's jean. i got your note. see you tonight.]

 

I see stars as I exhale, slumping against the door.

Almost immediately, my phone chirps, and I flip it open.

 

 **From Marco:** [yeah, see you! :D]

 **From Marco:** [oh & wear something cool. it's gonna get hot in there tonight.]

 

I blink, dazed, at the words my phone slipping from my fingers and clattering to the floor with a dull thud. At the rate things are going, I'm not sure my cardiovascular system will last the night.

I pull out my iPod and restart the song, resting my head back against the door and closing my eyes.

 

The line inside the club seems longer than usual. It may, however, be exacerbated by the fact that I'm practically bouncing on my toes in anticipation.

Eren snarks from behind me. "Someone's excited."

I just reach back and wordlessly punch him in the shoulder, not taking my eyes off the door. I can feel the vibrations of the thudding bass from behind it in the little tremors that shoot up my legs from the floor.

He chuckles and Armin, beside him, turns.

"Is she all right?" They murmur to Eren.

"I just texted her." Eren assures, tilting the phone still in his hand so Armin can see. "She's on a study date with someone from the kendo club―Christy, Christa?―something like that. Doing fine." Armin relaxes visibly at that.

"You know she feels bad about what she said, Armin." Eren adds quietly.

"I wish she wouldn't." The reply is soft.

"You're going for the front, aren't you?" Connie asks smugly from beside me, interrupting my subtle eavesdropping.

"Yep." I reply unabashedly. "And if you say anything about it I'll kick you in the nuts so hard you won't be able to have kids."

"Hey now!" Sasha interjects, but leans in to whisper to me anyway, grinning. "Go get 'em, tiger."

I just roll my eyes.

After what feels like an hour, we've finally paid cover and none of them even try to step forward until I've zipped in front of them, through the doorway, and onto the dance floor.

God, I need this.

I need this night to check out from the complexity of today, to forget about all the shitty things and people in this world and just be one with something pure.

There's that infectious bouncy quality to the climbing rhythm again as I book it toward the front so fast I almost trip over my own feet. I probably look like a fucking idiot. Like some lost puppy who'd just spotted its owner after turning around and around in circles.

When I finally reach it, I look up toward the stage.

As if I had a choice.

I see him glance in my direction and raise a hand. He practically lights up when he sees me.

But tonight this music bending around us is lower, harsher. Something more urgent is permeating the atmosphere. The laser focus is back in his eyes, like the sear of black ice, like the scope of a gun and it makes me shiver. The smile that spreads across his face is not one of greeting, but that of someone who has been posed an exciting challenge.

Goosebumps break out across my skin as one side of his lips pulls his grin into a sideways smirk. He gives me a last long look before reaching out tap the keys of his laptop with rhythmic confidence, like a choreographed dance, bringing a new melody threading up through the previous, overtaking it.

This song is the flicker of a mischievous smirk. The playfulness of a sideways glace. The inviting crooking of a finger. My mind produces half formed glimmers of these images like sunlight reflected off rippling dark water through the skittering tangle of music.

When it drops, the air around me is shivering: fractal and angular. Adrenaline is already surging through me, soaking in the perfect storm, feeling it set me alight.

It's only been one day and I seem to have forgotten exactly what it's like dancing with him.

I am a puppet, pulled up tight then dropped down fast, halted by the string just before I splat.

The dark undertone of the lighthearted surface has sunken into my skin. It seems to slide and weave along my bones, webbing between my ribs like congealed gasoline, stretching gelatinous, thick, and dark. It's as if he's waved a static-charged balloon along the surface of my skin, putting my nerves on end in a way that makes me bite my lip. The contrast is building, my insides dark and heavy, my surface vibrating and skittering like salt spread across a shaking table.

The music relents into a slow dip, into a creeping, teasing finger along exposed skin. It draws a licking path of excitement up my spine until I'm squirming with anticipation, the build rising and shivering slowly upwards.

When the drop hits I moan. The sensation is visceral, shooting along my nerves.

It is a sensuous smirk and the teasing grind of hips.

_"It's gonna get hot in there tonight."_

Oh.

_Oh._

The air around me seems to be pulling my hips in these slow, sensuous circles. I can't help but obey, as always, at the mercy of the music.

God, my skin is an exposed wire, humming and vibrating with barely contained power. And when his eyes, alight with intensity and focus, hit me it's like he's waved some conductor close, luring the crackling electricity to jump out through the air in sparking, jagged, connecting lines.

The crash of the music back into a lulling slowness has them slithering back into me, retracting at the absence.

But just as quickly he's got the next track sparking to life and I can't help but grin from ear to ear. _God_ , he knows _just_ what songs to play to keep this mood of crackling electricity skittering along my skin and the slow grind of my hips working to the beat.

It's slow, like the soft prowling steps of a hunting cat stalking its prey, confident and creeping. It is sinuous and low and grinding as it slowly adds onto itself, increasing in tempo. Its boldness sinks my hips and my chest, kindling something within me, glowing to life within my muscles.

The drop is a stomp of combat boot, heavy and deliberate, reverberating up through the floor into my bones, shaking them with the vibrations. It is weighted, intense, tinged with red and orange and it licks along my skin in pinpricks.

I lick my lips, feeling sweat sliding down my back, breaking out in chills.

I am so alive inside my body, so in tune with it, so aware of it and how it feels and how it _can_ feel. I am the contrast of sparking, flaring fire and the dark, forbidden shadows it casts. I am alive and bright and wanting; _needing_ to consume to keep me sparking and crackling and alive. But in the back of my mind, it casts stretching, leading shadows into the darkness beyond it.

His eyes are on me and I _need_ them to be, _need_ him to be watching each jerk of my hips, each bend of my legs, each flick of my arms. It is essential. It the most important thing in the world is for his eyes to be on me, devouring every inch of me in this most crucial way.

His hands dart out to the laptop and mixer, but his eyes stay glued to me, my chest heaving, my body still swirling with energy.

And he grins.

It is the sort of grin given by a chess player after a making a particularly well planned move, confident the piece he just placed will allow the rest of the game to fall into order in his favor.

And it is in this moment, with this music thrumming through my veins because he placed it there so carefully, so precisely, that I realize I adore him.

Because being a DJ is not the same as being a rockstar or a musician or producer. There is nothing about the beautiful tapestry of sound and atmosphere around us that came from Marco directly. But, somehow, to me, that seems almost more amazing.

Because it takes a different kind talent to be confident through the strength of others, something more humble and more open. He utterly trusts the music he plays, the artists who create it. But he also trusts himself, trusts his power to play it in a way that shows us its beauty.

The quiet unassuming way he puts together the experience of these nights for all of us is similar to the miraculousness of the workings of nature. They are intricate and grandiose and can make you believe in something beyond yourself, but often times you forget they are even there. You forget how much time and how many intricate pieces it takes to painstakingly create what you experience within it.

And you forget how achingly gorgeous it can be when you surrender yourself to it.

Because he is so talented, so confident up there on that stage in the way he gives himself over to the power of the music, trusts it so completely. And also in the way he seems to tangle it around himself, wrap it around his limbs and torso until he truly understands it, feels it in the tips of his toes and every corner of his soul. And in how then he sends it out to us the way he knows will make us feel it too.

And don't think I've ever felt anything as beautiful as the way he makes me feel music.

 

Marco offers to drive me home again that night.

When I locate Sasha and Connie to relay the news, I find them talking in uncharacteristically serious tones with Eren in a corner of the lobby. Connie elbows Sasha when he spots me. A strained smile crosses her face as she tells me in a too-high voice to have fun and put myself out there.

Eren's eyes are trained on his shoes and he doesn't look up when I ask if he's okay. He just nods and doesn't say anything. As eager as I am for another ride home with Marco, for more alone time with him to talk and joke and feel simultaneously comforted and overwhelmed by those huge brown eyes, the whole thing makes me nervous.

But Sasha shoves me back towards the coat check to grab my things and, in the end, I am fucking weak. So call a quick goodbye and ask them to say goodnight to Armin for me.

I don't hear a reply as I'm elbowed from the lobby.

 

Marco and I climb up the stairs of building D and both stop on the second landing outside Marco's door. There's something between us again and it is like that first night I'd met him during conversation on the couch in the lounge. Something in the very air itself had seemed to be slowly tugging at us, pulling us inward. And here it is again.

Marco face is almost glowing beneath the soft yellow light of the lamp, radiant and magnetic and my hands twitch at my sides, aching to reach outwards. They  itch to trace the line of his cheekbones, to count each spattered freckle, to run my hands through his hair, to hear his breath catch beside my ear, to feel the warmth of his chest against me...

The warm summer's night air seems to press in close on us. It is a comforting suffocation, like the familiar weight of a blanket.

"I'm really glad you came out tonight." He starts. With the way the light above us hits his eyes I can see a thousand different shades of brown in his irises and it makes them into bottomless, light-filled pools.

"You've said that every night." I reply, eyes trying and failing to follow the motion of his tongue as it darts out to wet his lips.

That goddamn moth is back again. I can hear its tinking buzz as it continuously throws itself at the glass around the light.

"Because I _am_ every night. I-" He starts, his eyes slowly roaming over my face before he seems to reconsider and just shakes his head. "Nevermind."

"What?" I ask.

"No, nothing. I have a bad habit of oversharing sometimes."

"I thought you said you always put your weaknesses out in the open." I reply and he smiles at that, the skin around his eyes crinkling in the most perfect way.

"I _try._ " He corrects, voice laced with amusement. "But I think everyone's wary of double-edged swords." He pauses, shaking his head before finally continuing with a laugh. "You're lucky I haven't been drinking. I have absolutely no filter. Honestly gets me into trouble sometimes."

I snort.

The light above us flickers for a moment before steadying back into its solid glow. The moth doesn't seem to notice, though, its wings a brown and tawny blur as it circles the light unfazed.

"That bad, huh?" I'm grinning, eyebrow raised. "What are you, like, the Hulk of drinking? Sweet and nice normally but when someone gets a beer in you: AUUURGH!"

His laugh is like fucking sunshine.

"Not exactly, no."

"Fine, fine." My hands raise in the air in surrender. "I won't delve into your personal vices."

"I'm not an alcoholic if that's what you're thinking." He's grinning.

"Is it a drug problem? Are you involved with the mafia? Did you murder someone?"

"You got me. All three of them." He pauses, keeping an impressively straight face. "At the same time."

"The mafia paid you to kill someone over drugs?" I bite out through a web of suppressed laughter clogging my throat.

"Nah. I did drugs with someone in the mafia who then murdered me," he replies, waving dismissively.

"Oh-ho, the plot thickens!" I laugh. "You're actually a ghost, then." He waggles his eyebrows.

"My tale holds many a twist and turn, Mr.-" He hesitates, the playful air dissipating around at the pause. He blinks, looking a bit puzzled. "I just realized I don't know your last name."

"Kirschtein." I reply. There is a clink and a soft buzz as the moth collides with the light again. "Jean Kirschtein."

He looks up at me and his eyelashes cast long shadows across his freckled cheeks.

"Jean Kirschtein." He repeats back and my name sounds like a work of art in his mouth. I want to know what sort of beautiful secrets he hides in there to make it come through sounding like that. "I like it."

The air is heavy, weighted, warm. My nerves feel magnetized, drawn once again up to the surface of my skin, breaking out in goosebumps when Marco's eyes fall to my lips. Every fiber of my being is screaming for some catalyst to throw our atoms into motion and to break this tenuous, charged equilibrium.

The world has narrowed to the space between our faces and it is bathed in soft, warm light and I want to kiss him I want to kiss him I want to _kiss him_ -

"I'll see you again soon, Jean." He says, soft and low with the barest hint of an affectionate chuckle. "Good night."

He turns and unlocks the door, stepping into his apartment before my body seems to remember it can move.

"Good night." I choke out and the smile he gives me as he closes the door to his apartment makes my head spin.

I wobble up the last flight of stairs to the third floor on shaky legs. When I move to unlock the door my hands are shaking, keys rattling jarringly as I pull them from my pocket. The light on my landing is still broken, the shadows making it even harder to sort through my key ring to the one for my apartment.

My heart seems to be trying to beat its way out my chest as I remind myself to fucking breathe. I finally manage to fit the key into the lock after about a dozen tries of jabbing it in the general area of the slot.

" _I'm glad you came tonight_. _"_

_"I think you're plenty interesting."_

_"Something about you just..."_

With an adrenaline charged jerk I try to turn it in the lock.

The jarring crack I hear barely registers and I stiffen, hand still gripping the key. When I look down I can't quite comprehend what I'm seeing.

The key―well, about a third of it to be more precise―is lodged in the keyhole. A few spikes of jagged, broken metal protrude from the lock. The other part rests in my sweaty palm, equally jagged and equally fractured.

The implications seem to seep into my frazzled consciousness in the time it takes me to turn the knob once, twice, a third time with more force but no luck. My door remains resolutely locked and closed, the jagged broken edge of my key glinting in the moonlight filtering onto the landing.

I slump back against the opposite wall, looking up to the ceiling and then, after a pause, to the wooden floorboards below me. Light shines up from the lamp on the landing beneath them.

Don't do it. Don't do it.

Get out your phone, call Sasha, crash at her place.

Don't do it.

It's stupid and could ruin everything and it's _so_ not like me but goddammit I want to. I do. And _he's_ the one who told me it's okay to do things outside of the usual. That it's okay to change.

I shakily laugh to myself. I hope he's fucking happy.

Seeming to move of their own accord, my footsteps thunk down the flight of stairs sounding loud and hollow and before I know it I'm standing outside of Marco's door.

The moth is no longer buzzing around the lamp. It's perched quietly on the glass over the light in a way that just  _has_ to be much too hot but I just look down to the plain white door of Marco's apartment and take in a breath.

I inhale so deep and long my chest is burning and I think I might be seeing stars by the time I reach out my arm to knock.

It takes a few seconds before the door opens and Marco appears, now in a different shirt and sweatpants hanging low on his hips. A pair of thick framed glasses rests on his nose and he holds an open beer in one hand.

"Jean?" He says, expression puzzled. "What-?"

"I, uh-" I start eloquently, holding up my jagged half-key. "My key sorta broke off in my lock and now I can't get into my apartment and I was, uh, wondering if, well, I don't want to, like, impose, but, uh, since I can't, y'know, well, unlock my door and it's like, uh, three AM-" _stop stuttering, STOP STUTTERING!_ "Could I maybe, uh, crash here for the night?"

One of his eyebrows raises endearingly up over the frame of his glasses. He looks from my face to the broken key, then back again, and smiles, one side of his mouth rising further than the other.

He steps back from the door almost hesitantly, watching me with a peculiar expression, the warm light of his apartment spilling out onto the landing.

He's smiling but it's the smile of someone running an obstacle course, who, having conquered the first obstacle, sees the second and pauses to reconsider whether or not he's cut out to scale it.

"Yeah." He says finally with a small smile. "Come on in."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [fanfic/podfic blog](http://zoe-bug.tumblr.com/) | [personal](http://xiexiecaptain.tumblr.com/) | [twitter](https://twitter.com/xiexiecaptain)
> 
> Actually what will end up being chapter 6 was supposed to be part of this chapter, but it got too long so I had to cut it and move it to its own chapter. So that should be coming up sooner than this one did *sweats*


	6. Flicker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Does that make sense?"  
> Marco shrugs.  
> "I guess some people just get lonely more easily than others," he replies.  
> "Are you one of those people?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoooey sorry for the delay. Thanksgiving and lots of schoolwork happened. But I managed to find time to write the next chapter before exams set in to eat up my free time. I hope you all enjoy! We're moving into the next...arc of the story, I guess?? I'm excited :)
> 
> SONG LIST:  
> 1\. ["Sweet Nothing" - Calvin Harris ft. Florence Welsh (Grandtheft & Diplo Trap Remix) ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v-iQZrglK5Y)  
> 2\. ["Hold it Down" - Datsik ft. Georgia Murray](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PFpLlklee24)
> 
> Also, it's a bit of a spoiler so don't click the link until you get there. But a *certain room* in Marco's apartment is a combination of [this](https://glennmain.files.wordpress.com/2012/08/studio-2.jpg?w=648) and [ this](http://www.direct-comtech.com/extraGraphics/home-tracking-studio.jpg)
> 
> Enjoy, my loves!

"So, ah, make yourself at home." Marco says, moving swiftly to close the door behind me. It clicks softly shut as I stand awkwardly just inside the door and take in his apartment.

The living room is bathed in soft light. One wall to my right is taken up entirely by a large sliding glass door that I can see opens up to a small balcony. To my left, along the wall next to the door, a flat screen TV is perched on a shelf stuffed full of DVDs and video games. Around it, a beautiful stereo system is pristinely situated, adorning it like a frame.

A sinking feeling starts in my gut when I realize how _together_ this guy's act is compared to my own sparse, mismatched apartment just above us. That is, until my eyes land at the space across from the TV, where any normal person would have a couch or some chairs.

"Why is your bed in the living room?" I blurt.

And sure enough, there's a bed shoved up against the wall, blankets in a twisted tangle where they'd apparently been left that morning (or afternoon, I don't know his life), TV remote and a book tossed haphazardly next to the pile of pillows at one end.

He turns to me, eyebrows raised. Behind his glasses his eyes flick from me to the bed and then back before he smiles a sheepish smile.

"There's a reason, I promise." He states and doesn't offer anything further.

"Uh, ok."

"So," he starts, sliding his glasses up his nose and pushing the sleeves of his shirt up to his elbows, "do you want anything to drink? I've got soda, beer..." He holds up the bottle in his hands.

"Uh, what kind?" Maybe it'll help calm my nerves. He looks down at the bottle as if it hadn't even occurred to him.

"Corona at the moment." He shrugs. "I might have some other kind in there somewhere but-"

"That's fine!" I practically squeak out and the corner of Marco's mouth twitches.

"Comin' right up." He says, striding across the room to where carpet gives way to a strip of linoleum. A little kitchenette is situated there on the oppose wall from the sliding door. "You're welcome to sit down wherever."

"On your bed?" I ask, a bit strained, still hovering awkwardly near the door. He reaches the fridge, adorned with a mishmash assortment of magnets holding up all sorts of papers that flutter as he opens it. He snorts, bending to reach for a beer for me.

"Mi casa es su casa." He says, straightening up and popping the cap.

"Right." I say, kicking off my shoes by the door and stiffly moving to perch precariously on the edge of the bed. It creaks beneath my weight.

Returning to me, Marco presses the cold bottle into my hand and the chill - or his fingers brushing mine as he passes it to me, I'm not quite sure - sends shivers up my arm.

He stops, standing in front of me, staring down. His hips cock to the right, a hand on one hip, beer in the other, glasses sliding down his nose.

"Uh..." I start stupidly. The way he's looking at me, eyes searching, considering, seeming to slip past my corneas and feel around the insides of my skull as if there were something there he's been desperately looking for.

I'm suddenly very sympathetic to the plight of deer innocently wading across highways when headlights crest over hills. My muscles won't move and I can do nothing but sit, frozen, and stare.

"Why are you so nervous, Jean?"

When my words come, they rasp.

"Uh- Nervous? I'm not nervous. What makes you think I'm nervous?" Topping off that well played sentence with a strained laugh definitely convinces him, I'm sure of it. Way to go, Jean.

"You're practically shaking." He accuses, reaching down to grab my wrist and yanks it up in the air to his eye line. "Look."

"Ha, ha ha, when did that happen." I bite out and the words sound terrified even to me.

"Jean." He says softly, warmly, looking down at me as he's studying a complex math equation, trying to assess the best way to approach solving it. He drops my hand and my wrist feels cold where his fingers had been pressed. "Why are you nervous?" It's not accusatory. Just inquiring. And maybe a bit morose. I bite my lip, eyes darting away, and take a sip of beer. He sighs. "Please don't be."

The way he says the words, sadly, wistfully, makes me look back at him. I watch his movements as he comes to sit next to me on the bed. I take another drink. So does he.

"I-" He starts, then stops, sighing, then starts again. "Jean, I want you to feel comfortable around me."

He pauses once more, looking down at the coffee table in front of us, eyes grazing over the magazines and DVD cases but not really seeing them. I watch his face as he talks because I simply can't _not._

"Sometimes when we talk it's like the most natural thing in the world." His eyebrows raise, coming together in the middle, expression reverent as if he'd witnessed some rare phenomenon of nature. "And then suddenly..." his face falls. "Suddenly it's like we're strangers."

"I- that's- Marco..." I gather my strength, the pads of my fingers white around the nails from how tight I'm pressing them to the glass of the bottle. _Be honest_. "I'm the most awkward fuck in the world. It's not you, I promise. It's just hard for me to- to just-" _Come **on**_. "It's just when I'm around someon-" I clamp my mouth shut and let the rest of my breath out in one short huff through my nose.

_When I'm around someone who makes me feel like there's something in me that is beautiful and worthy? When I'm around someone who can bend time and space and what it feels like to exist in my own body and make me forget everything but that?_

_Yeah... kinda hard to get my head to calm down_.

He's sitting angled toward me. He doesn't seem impatient or annoyed by my incoherent spluttering. Expression open and still, eyes slightly squinted behind his glasses, he simply waits, studying me.

I eventually sigh, shaking my head, and look down at my lap.

"I don't want you to be have to be nervous around me, Jean." He says softly, almost sadly. "I really don't." I look up to him, trying _so damn hard_ to quash the nervous tremors shooting themselves through my chest, weaving between my ribs, floating on the gentle inflations and deflations of my lungs.

"You're not the only one." Forcing out a humorless laugh, I finally admit, "I'm calmer around you than around most people, though." Looking away, I bring the bottle to my lips again. "Besides my friends." I tip the bottle back.

"I'm not your friend?"

I nearly choke.

"My friend?" I wheeze out and _wow_ does it sound like something's got it's fingers wrapped around my throat.

He turns to me, beautiful brown eyes glowing behind those adorable glasses and shrugs. I cough a few more times, both to clear the alcohol clinging to my esophagus and also to buy myself a few seconds. I can't seem to push more words out past whatever's got a strangle hold on my neck.

"If that's all right with you." He says finally. Marco looks down to his lap, thumb sliding through the condensation on the bottle he's clutching there. "To be honest with you, I don't really have many friends here. It'd be nice to..." he trails off, the one to shake his head this time.

At the choked, confused sound I make, still shaking loose the last of the beer with a gruff cough, he looks up, a faint surprised smile flickering across his lips before it spreads into a grin.

"What was that?" He asks through a laugh.

"I-" I clear my throat when the first syllable cracks as I try to form it. "I just... that's surprising. You seem so... I don't know..."

"Personable?" I nod and he laughs.

The knot of tension currently caressing the underside of my sternum seems to perk up at the sound. It pauses, listening as if straining to hear distant, calming music and then sighs, stilling itself.

"Yeah."

"Everyone says that. Having people like you isn't the same as having friends." The words are slow, almost deliberate, restrained. "It's just..." He turns to me, one leg folded in to him, the other dangling off the side. The next words are rushed, as he's let down a flood gate and the water is eagerly scrabbling over itself to be released from the pressure. "Do you ever feel like it's almost impossible for anyone to get you... really _get_ all of you? All the complicated combination of tiny things and idiosyncrasies and different variations that make you up?"

"All the time." My voice is quiet when it comes. I bite my lip.

"It's lonely, huh?" Marco asks, taking a drink. I watch his Adam's apple bob as he does so before catching myself and looking away.

"Sometimes, yeah." He pushes his glasses up his nose again.

"Sometimes?"

I shrug.

"I mean... I don't know. I have friends that don't really _get_ everything about me. But they accept it anyway. They don't understand certain things, but they don't make me pretend I'm not myself if that makes sense." Marco shrugs, flicking his eyes away.

"I guess some people just get lonely more easily than others." He replies.

"Are you one of those people?"

The way his eyes shine in the soft light from the overhead lamp is so warm, so pleasantly surprised, as if I'd just whispered a password he hadn't let himself hope I'd be able to guess.

He licks his lips and laughs a soft, self-deprecating laugh.

"I told you I have a bad habit of oversharing."

"Said you only did that when you drank."

He smiles, holding up his empty beer bottle. The last few drops tinkle against the bottom as he shakes it.

"Better get me another one so I have an excuse for being embarrassing, huh?" I laugh as he hauls himself to his feet and pads back to the fridge. "You want a round two?" He calls over his shoulder, the soft clinking of bottles following the words back to me.

I look up to the ceiling lamp, leaning back on my hands, and take a deep breath.

In... and out.

"Got anything else?" I ask. He whacks his head on the ledge of the freezer door bolting up suddenly at my question. I feel bad for laughing as he curses softly.

Straightening up completely, he turns to me, rubbing the back of his head and wincing, but I see the amused quirk of his eyebrows when he replies.

"What did you have in mind?"

 

 

"So then- ok, get this, no- no, shut up, stop laughing, Jean, this is the best part. So then, he goes up to him, this tiny little 5 foot 2 man goes up to _Armin VanBuuren_ \- who is like, 6 foot 2, I think? Tall as shit, anyway - and says...and says-" Marco's trying to bite out the words through fits of giggles but can't stop laughing long enough to finish the sentence as it devolves into raucous fits of laughter.

 _I_ can't stop laughing either. I'm sitting beside Marco on the bed in a borrowed t-shirt and pair of jeans that I had donned after some insistence and apologies that Marco didn't have any clean sleepwear left, both of us on at least our third drink. The jeans fit well, albeit a little loose and but the t-shirt is a bit baggy.

My stomach is aching, my cheeks hurt, and the way Marco's flushed face is scrunched up, eyes squeezed shut with laughter is the most radiant thing I can remember ever seeing.

Or that could be the rum talking, but I'd bet money otherwise.

"Ok, ok." Marco says, taking deep breaths, dissolving back into a few giggles before wrangling back his composure, "Right, so Levi goes up to him, hands on his hips―can you _imagine_ that?―and says, all growly stern voice, staring up at Armin VanBuuren and says-" Marco puts his hands on his hip, legs crossed under him, and makes an exaggeratedly grumpy face, brow furrowed, lips pushed out and continues in a nasally impression of what I assume is a chain smoker, " _No, asswipe,_ you're _the fucking bagel thief_.""

Marco falls over sideways on the bed, he's cackling so hard and I have to clumsily grab his drink from him before he spills it.

"No fucking way."

"Yes fucking way." He replies, arm clutching his stomach. He props himself up on his elbow awkwardly and takes a deep steadying breath, still beaming. "And that's the story of how Levi got kicked out of Festival Pier."

"Over a bagel?"

"Ok, were you not listening? It wasn't just about a bagel. It was about _honor_."

"Whatever you say." I grin. He sighs wistfully.

"I miss Philly. That was a fun festival too." I hand him back his drink.

"Still cool you got to go to all those festivals with him."

"Yeah, it was great. I learned a lot about how everything works. Booking, equipment... everything." He looks up suddenly, a little more alert. "There's that one around here coming up soon, right? Uh... what's it called again?"

"Player 1?" I supply.

"Yeah! Player 1! I'm trying to get a spot to play there."

"For real?" I ask incredulously.

"Mhm." He affirms around another mouthful of rum. "Nothing major," he finishes after he's swallowed. "Just like a, like a side stage, maybe a set or two on Friday. Since I'm not a music producer it'd be like filler spot, but..." He shrugs. "It'd be great to get my name out there."

"Dude, that would be amazing. I hope you get a spot."

"Me too." He sighs wistfully. "Should be hearing back about it in the next few days."

A silence falls between us, that comfortable quiet following laughter which drifts softly down like falling leaves.

"So..." I start, my mind warm and slow. "I've been meaning to ask. If your bed's out here, what's in your bedroom?" I look back toward where I've been studying the dresser shoved up against the foot of the bed.

"Why are you so curious what's in my bedroom?" He asks with a grin, crossing his arms. "You could at least ask me out to dinner first."

Laughing at my shocked expression that I am a bit too tipsy to conceal, he just warmly places a hand on my shoulder.

"Hey, it's fine. I'll show you the bedroom if you want." He stands, drink still in hand, and holds out his other to me. I slide mine into it and it's warm, dry, comfortable. My head spins a bit when he yanks me to my feet after sitting for so long. What time is it? It has to be pretty late by now.

I follow him past the kitchenette, watching the way his sweatpants ride low on his hips, and down to the end of the short hall where it dead ends, a door on either side.

"Oh, yeah." He says, gesturing to the door on the right. "That's the bathroom by the way. Wow, I'm a terrible host, huh?"

"You gave me booze. All is forgiven." He laughs warmly and turns to the door on the left. "There's nothing... weird in there, right?" I ask and he grins, the speckled skin of his cheeks bunching beneath his eyes.

"Three guesses about my big bedroom secret." He says, hand on the doorknob. "Go."

"Dead bodies." I guess.

"Bzzzt. Wrong. Two left."

"Um, um, sex dungeon." He rolls his eyes.

"I wish. One more to go."

"Uh, art studio?"

I swear to God, he is _radiant_ in the soft light here, that small smile curling up the corners of his lips like. There, again, is that astonished, almost proudly reverent look. As if I have surpassed his every expectation, untangled every knot, seen through every wall.

"Close enough." He replies and twists the knob.

 

 

It's fucking beautiful.

As we step into the room, I almost can't believe it's the same apartment. A dim light from one side of the room softly illuminates the space in a smooth yellow glow.

Multiple different electronic keyboards are placed like layered reaching arms perpendicular from a large desk taking up almost the entirety of one side of the room. Two large computer screens span most of the desk, framed on either end by large speakers. Spread between the keyboards and beneath the monitors there are various mixing boards, and spread in an arc around the bottom of the office chair beneath the desk, I can see a few reverb petals. Cables crisscross along the floor, here and there marked with colored painter's tape and what I can only assume are equipment names carefully blocked onto it in black sharpie.

Behind the desk and when I turn to look, I can see bass traps wedged in the corners. Looking up, I see them tacked up where the walls and ceiling meet as well.

Across the walls are shelves of CDs and vinyl, posters and record cases tacked up, displayed like trophies. Here and there concert and festival passes dangle interspersed between them from wall hooks.

"My pride and joy." Marco says like an adoring parent, looking around too. He takes another sip of his drink he'd brought with him. "Was a _hell_ of a time moving it all to this new place, let me tell you. Only finished getting it set up last week."

"This- this is-" I stammer, the alcohol crowds the words together as if all determined to come out all at once, effectively halting the progress of any past my throat as if a traffic jam. He just laughs quietly.

"It's not as impressive as it looks. I got a lot of it second hand from DJs I knew who upgraded and stuff." He admits. "No way I could have afforded this all myself. But it all works great. Except that one mixing board over there." He points toward to the right side of the desk. "That's my problem child. I have to hold the cord at the right angle sometimes or it won't connect." He stops for a second. "Ha, sorry, I'm boring you with tech stuff."

"No! No, no, this is amazing!" I say, stepping further into the room, glancing around. "Do you- you _have_ to make original mixes then, with all this."

"I _attempt_ to mix." He clarifies, amused. "So far I've been pretty unsuccessful. It's just- Oh, hi, sweetheart! You're awake!" Marco cries, darting across to the far side of the room. I stiffen at the sound of the endearment.

He reaches a small table in the corner where I just now notice, my attention having been pulled away from his studio, a large tank bathed in the bright light of two heat lamps that are what has been lighting up the room, casting long shadows across the equipment.

"Look who's awake, finally." Marco teases softly, reaching into the tank to run a finger along a pale, speckled blob I can't quite make out from here. Turning back to me, he jerks his head toward the tank. "Jean, come meet Apollo."

"Apollo?" I ask, coming to join him at the tank.

"My gecko." He replies, scratching under the little lizard's chin. "Apollo, meet Jean." The lizard only blinks slowly. Marco turns his face to me, grinning. "He says hi."

"Hi, Apollo." I laugh.

"Do you have any pets?" He asks and I shake my head.

"I'm allergic to cats and we can't have dogs in this complex."

"Shame." Marco says. "It's nice having something around to take care of. Something that really needs me, y'know?"

He looks down into the tank affectionately, where Apollo suddenly scuttles away from his hand to hide beneath half of a coconut shell in the corner beside his water dish.

"Hey, do you listen to Trapstep?" he asks suddenly, retracting his hand and turning to me. I watch the corner of his mouth quirk sideways in a rueful smile. "Dangerous question, I know. A lot of people have strong opinions about Trap."

"I've never really listened to much, to be honest. So I wouldn't know."

"Would you like to?" His voice is soft, enticing.

"Uh, sure." I stammer.

"It's like most EDM genres." Marco says as he swiftly, albeit a bit clumsily, moves back towards the desk. I follow him back across the room like a silent, lingering ghost. He reaches the desk, his back now to me and stoops to boot up the desktop computer below it. Cords trail away from every port like the reaching legs of a spider. "It has its good seeds and bad seeds. You just have to know where to look for the good stuff."

As the computer glows to life, he takes another drink from the glass he'd left on the desk when we'd first come in.

"Sure." I say and he hands the glass to me, turning to the keyboard. The heavy clacking of keys fills the space as I glance around the room again. Marco's head tilts down to his typing fingers then back to the monitors back and forth as he opens folders and programs leap onto the screen. His eyes glow in reflected greens and blues.

It's dark in this room still, only lit by the screen monitors and the heat lamps in the corner. A little hot, too, because of them. My shirt seems to cling to me as I watch his broad back move under his.

I take a drink from his discarded glass, the rum burning on the way down, realizing halfway through swallowing who's glass this is, who's _mouth_ has been on this glass, and nearly start choking again.

_Jesus Christ. A few drinks and I'm a mess._

I sigh.

_Let's be real, I'm a mess drinks or no drinks._

He stands at his desk, the office chair rolled away into the open space beyond the equipment, back-lit and beautiful. I feel like a I can't breathe.

Suddenly a slow rhythm and chiming melody flows crisp and deep from the speakers.

"I usually listen to Trap at night like this. It's got a...like, a certain quality to it, I guess." Marco says over the music beginning to fold in on itself as it plays. "It sounds like the dark. Like streetlights at 2am." He laughs softly. "Sorry, I'm a little drunk, ignore me."

I just smile in response, letting the slowness and the swaying rhythm of the song settle low in my body, washing over me, tangling with the sluggishness of my mind and enveloping me in the low lit intimacy of the room.

_You took my heart and you held it in your mouth_

_And, with a word, all my love came rushing out_

 

I watch him still tapping at the keys, tongue between his teeth, brow furrowed in concentration and a warmth seems to fill my chest at the image. I listen as the sound subtly changes, lower or wider as he reaches his hand out to slide knobs up or down on a mixer to his right.

 

_So I put my faith in something unknown,_

_I'm living on such sweet nothing_

 

The frequency of the higher drums increases, the low resonating bass pounding through the speakers like ripples spreading through water, the sound building and building and building...

And where the stuff Marco usually plays would explode, sending my mind and body reeling with adrenaline and light behind my eyelids, this drop feels as if the floor has fallen out from under my feet. My heart drops into my stomach and I am suddenly floating, weightless, swaying in sensuous waves and circles on a pitch black sea.

I start to understand his words, I watch his body match the rhythm as well, his hips beginning to sway slightly to the low beat in front of the desk, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet in time, outlined in the bright glow of the computer monitors.

Mouthing along to the words, his long fingers slide a knob on the far left of the mixer up and the reverberation of the bass is suddenly inside my veins, pulsing through me like blood. My hips itch to follow the lead of the music, longing to give in, be carried away by the low, dark waves but I'm frozen to the spot.

He turns his head over his shoulder.

I watch his lips move as he speaks but I can't make out the words over the music. I give him a questioning look. Jerking his chin he motions for me to come closer.

 

_Who-oh, sweet nothing._

 

The vibrations in the air around us seem to act as a sedative to the knot of tension still sleeping in my chest, keeping my hands from shaking as I walk to him.

"What do you think?"

"I like it. It's..." I search for the words to describe the soft, dark satin swirling between us, around us, caressing the skin of our arms and the sides of our necks.

"Sexy, right? Trap's best at night, in my opinion. When you get that charged energy to you. Like suddenly everything is so close and- Do you get that too, or am I a weirdo?"

I swallow.

"No, I get what you mean." He grins, eyes flicking down along my torso, then back up to my face, his eyes shining in the low light as the bass thrums around us.

"I can tell you're itching to dance." He says. "Go right ahead."

"Huh?" My eyes are wide.

"Always dance when you feel like it." He states, like it's an obvious fact of nature, common sense. "Besides," he leans in so I can hear him as the music swells. His breath is warm on my cheek and I shiver, "I like watching you dance."

He leans back, eyes dark under his lashes, nodding at me encouragingly.

 

_And every whisper, every sigh,_

_Eats away at this heart of mine._

 

I close my eyes, letting the darkness and the music lull me the way it always does, let it carry me.

I surrender to its low, swaying sounds, to the way it chimes in the crown of my skull and echoes in the soles of my feel.

"That's it." Marco whispers, encouraging. He sounds closer. Is his voice always pitched like that? Is it always so smooth? "Let it work its magic."

 

_Sweet nothing_

_You're giving me such sweet nothing._

 

I surrender.

My mind is clear of all doubt, all worry. Here, again, is that beautiful serenity, nothing but me and the music and Marco's dark, strong, soothing presence. I let myself float, trusting the web of sounds, of high pings of light behind my eyes, of heavy booming thuds of rippling water around me to do me no harm, to catch me, to lift me up and up and up...

The music sits low in my hips and they grind in slow circles. I bite my lip, trying to fight of the creeping anxiety that attempts to seep its way back into my mind. Because, opening my eyes, I realize that Marco is leaning back against the desk, simply watching me, watching the movements of my body, the sinuous undulations of my limbs and torso like an artist stepping back from a freshly finished painting.

That hot, insistent energy is pooling in my hips again, like earlier tonight at the rave, only somehow more saturated, closer, more intimate. The small space between us is alive again, palpable; viscous and sliding and it's like I can feel the steady rise and fall of his chest, the barely visible sway of his shoulders as he follows my movements as if they are mine as well.

The music suddenly planes, hangs suspended as it begins to fade, dissipating to an echoing pluck like a rock skipping across water and then dissolves.

The silence that falls feels like the air has been sucked out of the room. I'm breathing much too hard for the dancing I'd been doing to warrant and I watch his throat bob as he swallows, our eyes meeting.

"Wanna hear something else?" He asks and his voice sounds tight, strained, a bit breathless as well.

"Yes."

With one insanely quick glance back toward the keyboard and screens, he taps two keys. He then turns back and meets my eyes once more as the first sounds of infinitely low, resounding bass seem to wipe my mind with its vibrations.

It is _slow_ , so fucking slow, I can't help but let the movements of my hips and arms tip past the thin line I'd been teasing earlier into blatantly sexy. My cheeks heat up when I realize what I'm doing. The back of my mind is screaming at me, shouting words of "mights" and "going to"s, but the building, increase of the music washes it away, my mind swimming with alcohol and its echoing, enveloping anticipation.

When the drop hits, it punches the breath out of me in a harsh sigh. My eyes fall shut again, my head nothing but grinding, scraping notes until I am heavy and crackling inside my body.

"You're something else when you dance."

My eyes snap open when I feel hands on my hips from behind me. The words are a hot puff of air on my neck, breathless and a bit undone.

"Marco-?"

"You have no idea how you look, do you?" I suck in a breath when I feel the planes of his chest suddenly against my back, his hips fitting against mine, the slow sway of the music suddenly melding us together in its grinding beat. "You're so _open_. Every time I see you dance I just-" He cuts off, letting out a half sigh, half growl against the nape of my neck, the nerves there pricking up under its teasing possibility.

"It's cause of you." I gasp out, my head spinning with rum and music and Marco.

"Me?" His breath is hot on my ear, and _god_ I can feel his hips pressing into my back. He's so warm, so encompassing. His presence is swallowing me, enveloping me like the rolling bass of the music and I want to let it have me.

_Be honest. Let it make you brave._

"The way you play." I manage. It sounds strangled, barely whispered.

I gasp when I feel his lips hit my neck, trailing softly along it, unable to help tilting my head to give him access. A smile curls against my skin at the subtle motion. His hand tightens on my hip.

"You shouldn't say things like that, Jean. You'll make me think I have power over you."

I swallow heavily. He does, _he does_ , oh _God_. And I love it, love what he does to me, love what his music and his touches alike can make me feel, what they can wash away and what they can drag to the surface leaving me shivering and pliant.

He lets out another harsh exhale against my neck and I shiver.

"I want to take you places, Jean, where you'll forget your own name..." The words come out rushed, dizzy, like a desperate fevered wish. I gasp, the words and the sensation of his lips mouthing at my neck sending shocks of arousal through my body. Shit, _shit_ , this is not the time to get a boner, _fuck_. "I want to take you apart piece by piece and see what makes you move like this."

I moan. The desperate want in his voice has my knees weak. His tongue is sliding slowly and hotly up my neck to the line of my jaw where he pauses to mouth hotly. My hand shoots back to thread through the short hair at the back of his neck, head back, letting him have his way.

"Marco, Marco, _fuck._ " I murmur, my mind a hazy mess, my hands shaking. The hand on my left hip, warm and wide, drifts up under the hem of my shirt and the barely-there slide of skin on skin across my stomach makes me shudder.

There's a strong press of his hips and I can feel the ridge of his arousal hard against my ass and my brain kind of shuts off. My mind spins at the idea that he, _gorgeous, talented, wonderful, beautiful-,_ is hard against me, that together we are swaying slowly and deeply to this grinding, wonderful net of sound.

He's panting against my ear, hand on my chest and my hip, strong, possessive and I am melting in his grasp, my breaths hard and fast.

"Ahh- Nnnn." I moan again as his teeth worry at my ear, my cock twitching in my borrowed jeans. "Please..."

" _Fuck,_ Jean, I want to see what other sounds I can wring out of you."

His name escapes my lips like a prayer, something I'm desperately reaching for to hold on to in the torrent of sensations and overlapping thoughts and continuous, _glorious_ beats that flood my mind and body, Marco, _Marco, Marco..._

I'm overloading, short circuiting, and I can't remember ever feeling this _alive_ -

The music crashes, dissolving to silence and I feel a lingering exhale on my neck, cold on my saliva slick skin.

Then, there is a sudden inhale of breath, the clunk of staggered steps and the shattering of glass. The warm press of his chest to my back, the puffs of breath and slide of hands is gone, leaving me soberingly cold.

I whirl around to see him leaning against a table with one hand beside a keyboard, wiping his mouth on the back of the other, starting at me wide-eyed. On the floor beside the desk is his nearly empty glass, knocked over and shattered, the smashed pieces of glass strewn across the rug.

"I-I-" his breath is still fast, his chest rising and falling rapidly, but his voice is back to normal, devoid of its heavy, possessive growl of a moment before. "Jean, I'm so sorry, that was- that was- I'm sorry-"

"Marco-" I try to say, my voice rasping on the way out, my arousal still hard and pressing painfully against the inside of the pants.

He looks mortified, his eyes wide, staring down at my feet, face pale. Lips pressed together in a thin line, he shakes his head, cutting me off.

"That was uncalled for. I'm so sorry. Go-" He pauses to swallow. "Go back to the living room. Take my bed. I'll clean this up."

"But-"

He turns his back to me, already stooping to begin collecting the largest fragments of shattered glass that twinkle in the light of the lamps from the far corner of the room.

"Go get some sleep. It's late." Is all he says, quietly, voice hollow. He doesn't look back at me.

Nor does he look up as I mechanically force my feet to move, one step at time towards the door, out into the hallway, and back to the living room.

I stand there for a moment, open mouthed, brow furrowed, mind racing.

It takes me a few minutes to make myself climb into the bed, pulling the covers up to my chin with shaking hands. My hard-on is gone from the shock and the anxiety slowly seeping back into me like acidic sludge through my limbs.

Rolling over, I lay on my side, facing the wall. The blankets smell like him.

I hear him come back out after a good while and dump the shattered glass into a trash bag with a musical clinking, tying it up. There's a sliding door opening, the clatter of what I assume is a broom being taken out, and it sliding shutting again.

The light flicks off above me and I hear his footsteps retreat back into the bedroom.

I don't know how long it usually takes him to sweep a floor, but I doubt it takes as long as he does back in the bedroom.

Either way, he isn't back by the time I drift off to sleep, my mind spinning into dreams of staring up into the warming glow of a lamp, as blinding and radiant as the noon-day sun, that is flickering wildly above me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Friendly reminder, kiddos, people cannot give legal consent if they're intoxicated. Even besides the legal stuff, it's kinda a douche move to try to get with someone who can't think through things clearly. You're taking advantage of them, regardless of relationship status. Unless you've discussed having sexual relations while sober, don't have sex or do any sexual stuff drunk because you cannot give consent. 
> 
> Marco was right to do what he did but he probably could have gone about it in a better way. But, we'll have to see how the boys deal with the aftermath next chapter.
> 
> [fanfic/podfic blog](http://zoe-bug.tumblr.com/) | [personal](http://xiexiecaptain.tumblr.com/) | [twitter](https://twitter.com/xiexiecaptain)


	7. Shine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "That isn’t what I want it to be like...with us.” His eyes flick up to mine. “I want you to be able to trust me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh man I am feeling eight billion times better about this fic recently. I think I'm just finally shedding the writing rust I'd accumulated after not doing it for like four or five years.
> 
> Also, I have gotten so many AMAZING comments on this fic. You guys are so lovely and thorough about comments and you have such in depth wonderful things to say about the story and my prose and it just warms my heart every single time. Thank you so, so much for reading.
> 
> At any rate, here it is folks, I really hope you enjoy it!
> 
> SONG LIST:  
> 1\. ["Find You" KDrew Remix - Zedd feat. Matthew Koma & Miriam Bryant](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XmyUYoZVICc)
> 
> Also, [ this ](http://i3.cpcache.com/product/765945615/watch_your_dubstep_small_mugs.jpg?side=b&height=225&width=225)is Marco's coffee mug.
> 
> Enjoy!!

In my dream I am in a large, open room with walls of glass towering high above me. A blinding sun hangs in the black, open sky beyond it. It is warm here. And bright. Curled on the soft ground, I doze lazily, basking in the heat that bakes its way into the tension at the core of me and slowly begins to thaw it.

A sleepy smile twitches at my lips when I hear a chuckle. It is as sunny and comforting as the bright light pouring down from above me. I sigh at the sound.

Suddenly, the light flickers, but only momentarily before glowing back into a solid glare. My brow furrows. I close my eyes. But then, again, the brightness setting the back of my eyelids and inside of my head alight with orange and red flickers, this time stuttering and hiccuping more times before settling back into a steady shine.

I vaguely wonder if it’s a faulty lamp, or a just faulty connection.

I wake to the sound of beeping.

It’s shrill and consistent, two high dings, a pause, two more, a pause. Groaning, I pull the covers further over my head. The soft laugh, following me straight from my dream has my eyes snapping open as I sit bolt upright in my bed.

Wait. Not mine. This isn’t my bed.

And it’s out in a living room.

Disoriented, I glance around for a moment, my mind reeling, trying to make sense of my surroundings in the hazy sluggishness of post waking until my eyes fall on him. Past the foot of the bed, across the table in the middle of the room where the carpet gives way to linoleum, I see him half turned to me, one hand clutching a spatula, the other around the handle of a pan. He’s dressed already, glasses gone. The sizzle of something cooking reaches my ears.

“Good morning.” He says, his expression cautious but open and warm. “Sorry if I woke you.”

I realize the sound I’d heard had been a timer as he reaches up to the microwave above the stove, pulling his pinky out from around the spatula to cancel it. I sit up a little straighter and rub my eye with the heel of my palm to make it stop blurring when I try to look at him.

He smiles, seemingly despite himself, and turns back to his pan, flipping beige blobs around while dexterously opening and reaching into a cupboard to his left and grabbing a plate.

“I’m making pancakes, if you’d like some.”

“I- uh...” I start, my voice rasping a little from sleep. “Sure.”

By the time I’ve groggily dragged myself over to the table, a blanket still wrapped around me, eyelids still drooping, Marco’s set the table with silverware and two plates. A mound of pancakes rests on each from which steam rises in curling wisps. A square of butter is sliding down one side of mine, melting in the heat.

There’s a tension in the air, Marco seeming to move through the space with careful precision, fucking Indiana Jones-ing his tiptoed way across Hebrew tiles on a temple floor, sure one misstep will send him plummeting into the abyss below. My hands start fidgeting.

"What time is it?" I ask, wincing, extracting a hand from my blanket cocoon to rub my temple.

“Almost noon. Are you all right?” Marco asks, opening the fridge door. “You look like you have a headache.”

“I- uh, yeah.” I start, retracting one hand from my blanket cocoon to rub my temple. “I just... I haven’t had a smoke since yesterday, so...” I gesture to my head.

“You smoke.” Marco says, half question, half surprised statement, closing the fridge door. He comes back to set a syrup container on the table with a muted clunk.

“Well,” I relent, “I smoke those stupid little vapor things now since I’m trying to quit. Small steps, y’know? My friend Connie and I made a New Year's Resolution to quit together. But I’m still addicted to the nicotine.”

“Ah.” Marco says. “I don’t smoke, so I can’t help you out there. But I did make coffee if that’s any comfort.”

I snort, despite myself.

“Coffee is always a comfort.” I say, moving to stand up, but Marco is already turning to the cupboard to grab a mug.

“No, don’t get up.” He insists, pouring coffee into the mug with expert hands. I pull the blanket tighter around myself, my leg bouncing. He comes to set it down in front of me and I offer him a small smile, unable to meet his eyes, murmuring a thank you. “Let me know if you need any creamer or anything.” He adds and I nod wordlessly.

Marco sits down at the seat adjacent to mine. Without speaking he picks up his knife and fork and begins cutting into the food.

That slow, seeping tension is still there around us, keeping my gaze glued to the mug and away from his eyes. I run my finger over stick figure printed on the ceramic there inside a caution triangle like those you see on wet floor signs above the block letters of _Watch Your Dubstep_.

I’m so confused. If he’d really been so horrified by the idea of drunkenly making a move on my pitiful self, why is he acting like this?

“How did you sleep?” He asks, eyes on his pancakes, still slicing it into neat triangle wedges.

“Uhm... well.” I mutter.

He spears a wedge of pancake on his fork, bringing it up to his mouth, but then pauses. He stares at his plate, pancake hovering in front of his mouth for a moment before he lowers it, sighing. His eyes close, before he sets down his fork and knife with a small clink and turns to me, expression determined.

“Jean, I want to apologize for what happened last night.”

My eyes widening, I look up to meet his.

“A-apologize?” I stammer. _No, please don’t apologize for that, for wanting me like that_. The inside of my mind is racing with begging pleas, my heart sinking. _Please don’t take it back._

He shuts his eyes again, letting out a short, punchy exhale. I watch his eyes flicker behind their lids, belying some internal conflict.

“Yes, apologize.” He confirms, looking back at me. “It was irresponsible and unfair of me to do that. I put you in a terrible position and I really wanted to say I’m sorry. I know that doesn’t excuse what I did, but...” The storm of my mind comes to a screeching halt as I register the words, teetering, waiting for the next to decide which way I should fall.

“You were drunk.” He continues decisively. “I shouldn’t have done anything. Regardless of how much I-” He pauses, snipping off the words, and sighs. “I’m sorry, this isn’t coming out right.”

“Marco.” I start, shakily, tongue darting out to wet my dry lips. “You don’t have to apologize, you were drunk too, I just-”

“No, I do.” He says, staring down at his pancakes severely. “You were drunk. You were relying on me for a place to stay. We weren’t on equal ground. I lost control of myself and there's no excuse for that. I don’t-” He swallows. “I don’t like not being in control. Especially when the stakes are so high.”

I stare at him, trying to process his words. His eyebrows are knotted together, lips pressing into a thin line between words, looking as if he’s tensing to jump in front of a bullet. When the words come, they are rushed but determined.

“I understand if you’re upset with me. I’m upset with myself, honestly. If you don’t want to stay here until you can get back into your place, I completely understand. I’ll give you a ride to a friend’s house or call a cab if you don’t feel comfortable with that. Whatever I can do.”

I let out a breath, realizing.

“You’re not- ... _ohhh._ ” I slump a little back in my seat, my breath rushing out of me. “So... it wasn’t... that it was...  _me_.” I haltingly grind out. His head jerks up.

“What do you mean, you?”

“Like, it’s not that you regret... with me...” My face is burning. I’m suddenly second guessing the blanket cocoon I’d dragged with me to the table but at this point it’s more for comfort than warmth so I keep it tight around my shoulders, feeling sweat sliding down my back.

Marco’s lips part in realization.

“Jean.” He lets out my name in a breathless laugh, eyebrows lifting. “You thought I-” He cuts off.

Seeming to need a moment, he turns his over his shoulder, lips parting in realization, an incredulous expression dawning on his face.

“Yeah.” I confirm, voice quiet.

He looks back toward me, eyes alight with something akin to that electric focus he gets on stage but warmer, more pure.

“Jean, I thought it was pretty clear by now.” He says it simply but heavily and the vastness of that sentence seems to drop the floor out from under me.

I swallow.

“I-I’m not mad at you or anything. I just didn’t understand why you were acting the way you did. It’s pretty unorthodox. Most people wouldn’t think twice, especially when I...” I trail off, remember the way gasping pleas and curses had left my lips, the way his name had felt so _right_ rolling off on my tongue breathlessly. I shake my head. “I mean, all this...” I gesture at him, at his humbled, apologetic posture and the pancakes and the coffee, shaking my head. “You honestly are like the most moral person I’ve ever met.”

“I’m not special for respecting someone’s choices.” Marco murmurs, mouth twisting down. “Or the fact that someone couldn’t make them responsibly.”

I shake my head again, studying the way his hair falls into his eyes, the way the muscles in his face shift subtly as he works through his thought patterns. I want to tilt up his chin and watch him, to dig my way past these reactionary cues and follow it with him.

“That means a lot to me.” I say softly.

“I really am sorry about last night. And I’m sorry for the misunderstanding. I was just... upset at myself, I guess. For putting you in that situation. That isn’t what I want it to be like... with us.” His eyes flick up to mine. “I want you to be able to trust me.”

The words hang in the air and I feel a sudden shift―a tilt beneath me.

Not, “ _I want you to trust me_ ,” but “ _I want you to_ be able _to_.”

The gravity of that distinction hits me like a punch to the gut.

Before, I’d always felt as if Marco was the one who was at ease, in control of the situation, pulling me along through it with his magnetic, confident energy and enthusiasm. His presence had swallowed me up, enveloping me. But now he feels almost small before me, as though he has just laid himself at my feet, hands reaching upwards as if in desperate request.

 _I_ am the one now with the power to give, to initiate, to push. And it makes my head spin with the realization, unspoken between us, that he expects nothing from me, does not want any of what I have to offer unless I _offer_ it.

All my life things have been expected of me. To act like this, succeed in that, do this, be this and this but not that. My worth and value and success teetered on a scale measuring things I had no say in determining were valuable in the first place.

But here’s Marco. Wonderful, interesting, passionate, caring Marco who sees in me something inherent, something implicit that I do not have to explain or prove to him.

 _He_ is the one, with all his talent to tease out of me what he wants without this vulnerable emotional humbling, _asking_ to prove himself to me. As if the simple action of being me has warranted such devout and painstaking action.

I swallow against the feeling of something floating upward within me, rising through my chest. Biting my lower lip I scrabble, trying to piece together a reply for him from the swirling, yammering tangle of my mind with his warm, wide brown eyes looking at me _so tenderly_ -

We both jerk in our seats when a loud whistling emits from across the room, dissipating the hanging anticipation in the air between us. Looking over, I see a phone lit up and vibrating its way across the coffee table.

“Oh, sorry about that.” Marco says, but his voice seems lighter, less strained despite my lack of reply. He stands up, pushing his chair back with a muted scrape. “My alarm.”

One of my eyebrows raises.

“Do you usually set an alarm on Sunday?” I ask. He smiles a bit sheepishly, already walking to the coffee table.

My hands are cold again, gone of the embarrassed, fevered blush of before. I pull the blanket around me again. He swipes the screen and the whistling shuts off.

“Not for getting up. To remind me to take my medication. I always forget otherwise.” He gestures to the table. “Case and point.”

I tilt my head to the side.

“Medication?” Marco just shrugs. “S-sorry, I don’t mean to pry,” I start, backpedaling.

“No, no, it’s okay.” He assures nonchalantly. “I'm not embarrassed or anything. I just have a harder time with things occasionally. My brain’s kinda bad at the whole serotonin deal, so it needs a little help getting it right.”

"Sarah-what?"

“I’ll explain more about it later if you want. Just...for now, eat your breakfast.” He scolds slightly, saving me from the awkward moment that had been rocketing toward me. He tilts his head towards my untouched pancakes before turning to retreat down the hallway toward the bathroom. I hear him call back, teasingly. “Or else it’ll get cold. Just like you and your skinny ass!”

I frown in toddler-like petulance.

“I’m not that cold.” I mutter to myself, albeit still trying to figure out how to keep my blanket cocoon around me as I reach to pick up the silverware. “And my ass isn’t that skinny.”

The pancakes are fucking delicious.

As I eat I hear him rummaging around a cupboard in the bathroom and then the rattle of a pill bottle. He comes back out after a minute, grabbing his glass off the table and knocks back a few white pills without comment before sitting back down at his seat.

Elbow on the table, chin in his palm, he looks at me eyebrows raised.

"So." He says. "What are we gonna do about your key situation?"

 

We'd basically had three options.

1) Wait until the office opens Monday morning to call maintenance and have them basically replace my entire lock and make a new set of keys.

Option one was the expensive option. And therefore not an option.

Seeing as I'm still paying off student loans for a degree I'd never finished, I'm still pretty broke. I'd winced when Marco had laid it out for me, so he'd continued, ticking the options off on his fingers.

2) We try to break into my apartment by climbing up onto the balcony and get in through the sliding door and see if the door will open from the inside.

Option two was the dumbass college kid option since it still left me with a fucked up door. I told Marco I'd rather not try that unless we had no other choice, so he'd nodded gravely.

And when I'd asked what option three was, he'd just flashed an innocent little smile that made me narrow my eyes at him and shrugged, looking up at the ceiling.

 

"You 'know a guy'?" I ask, drumming my fingers on the inside of the car door. Downtown whips by us outside the window in a swirl of beige concrete and the flashes of storefronts streaking through as we pass in dashes of color.

It'd been about three when we'd decided to follow Marco's option three, gotten dressed, and piled into his car. I'm nearly swimming in the new t-shirt Marco had loaned me, still wearing the borrowed jeans from last night. They're held up by a belt as not to slip dangerously low on my narrower hips now that I have to walk further than a few steps across his apartment. I try not to think of the way they'd felt grinding against my ass, pressed by the curve of Marco's hips...

I shake my head to clear it.

Technically, according to my lease, I'm not allowed to make copies of keys, let alone bring in an outside party to fuck with the locks. But Marco had assured me the guy is trustworthy, cheaper than what the complex would charge me, and good at what he does.

According to what he's heard.

"Mhm." Marco replies, leaning over the wheel to look across the intersection, blinker ticking softly.

"How do you 'know a guy' who does shady lock repair?" I'm suddenly suspicious of the company Marco keeps. He shrugs dismissively, not looking over at me. "Didn't you just move here?"

"I went to college too. You think a DJ on campus didn't get up to some adventures?" He grins over at me momentarily. "I've needed my fair share of doors unlocked and keys duplicated, let's put it that way. There's someone in every college town if you know where to look."

"Uh-huh..." I reply skeptically, gazing back out the window.

"Person who's got the weed deal going on is never too far either, but that's a whole other story," he mutters, snorting. I glance over at him out of the corner of my eye.

"Do you, uh...?" I trail off. He shakes his head.

"Used to," he relents, "in college. Not really anymore."

"Why?" I ask. He laughs.

"We playing 20 Questions now?" The question is teasing more than anything else but still I look away out the window, letting out a breath.

One step forward two steps back.

"Sorry." I murmur. "I- it... 's just quiet, I guess."

"Yeah, sorry about that. I would have music on but its kinda tricky to get there and I need to concentrate a bit."

I don't reply, just stare out the window at the passing buildings.

"There's, uh, just something I've been meaning to talk to you about." I begin, and it takes a few false starts to actually get the words from my head all the way to my lips.

"Is everything all right?" His eyes are trained out through the windshield, but I see his brows knit together.

"Uh, yeah." I start. "It's just about...last weekend."

"What about it?" He asks.

"Have you guys, uh..." I picture dark eyebrows knotted together in worry and fear, the wavering words of _"I'll be okay."_ I promised. Come on. "I mean Erwin or the security people or whatever, have they heard anything about the guy who collapsed?"

Understanding dawns across his face like the flickers of light that peek through the blanket of clouds above us, flowing across us as we pass through bright pools of sun.

"Just that he's better." Marco replies, voice quiet.

"Heard down the grapevine it was laced." I add.

"So did I." he says and I watch his knuckles tighten around the steering wheel. "But we don't know anything else. Like where he got it or even what it was laced with."

"Any guesses?" My voice is tight, my muscles tensed. "It was in a tablet so it probably wasn't GHB. Maybe some Trip-and-Falls or something, but-"

"Jean, why are you asking this?"

"Why?" I repeat, incredulous. The next words come out sounding harsh even to my own ears. "Cause I'm worried about the shit going around in the scene, man! Cause somehow dangerous shit is getting into our clubs and I don't want people going out to have a good time and ending up knocked out. Or in the hospital! Or ra-" I cut myself off, realizing how much the volume of my voice had escalated. My gaze drops to my lap, teeth clenched, arms crossed over my chest. "Look, I just don't want anyone to get hurt."

"That's the last thing I want." Marco finally says, voice level but gaining an edge as he continues. "You think Erwin hasn't been working all week trying to make Karanese even safer? That he's not trying to balance making it a hot place to be and keeping it clean? It's hard, Jean. But he's trying."

"Yeah, ok." The frustration bubbles in my chest, hot and thick, making my jaw clench and my words petulant.

"You don't believe me." It's a statement, not a question. Marco glances over at me. "Why not?"

"Because the clubs around here have a lot to gain from being the places that don't check at the doors and look the other way, all right?" Brow furrowed, eyes still on my lap, I can't seem to bring myself to actually look over at him.

"You really think Karanese is like that?"

"Yeah, cause a night club's got standards." I scoff sarcastically, my mind casting back to Mikasa's eyes swimming with barely contained panic, Armin's pained expressions, Sasha's hopeful smiles... of all the people in my life that need a place to feel safe.

"Of course it does!" Marco bites out, his voice harsh.

"You've only been here for a few weeks!" I accuse. "How could you possibly-?"

"Because _this life ―_" he interrupts, voice strong and sure and sounding as if it drags the weight of something behind it, "―isn't about drugs! Drugs are part of the scene, sure. It's inevitable, it's fine. But it isn't about tripping into oblivion every party so you can't help but have a "good time"." His voice twists around the words as if they are sour. "It's about music. It's about people. It's about creating things that mean something and _finally_ having somewhere you _belong_. That's what EDM is really about."

"I fucking know that-!" I start indignantly, but he cuts me off.

"And so do I. And so does Erwin, Jean! And Levi and everyone else who's trying to help the situation. I understand you're frustrated. I know what kind of crap can happen when shitty people get their hands on dangerous things in a place that used to mean something. So please trust me when I tell you you're preaching to the choir. You've got good people here trying to keep the heart in this scene! And trying to keep that drugged-out shadow of what everyone seems to think EDM is these days is out of it!"

The silence between us that follows is heavy with the bumping rattle of the car and the words that had been scrambling to converge in my head dissipating like an exhale of icy mist.

"Look, I'm sorry." I mutter, the chill of regret seeping through my limbs. Marco shakes his head.

"It's all right. I get it. You're frustrated and that's good. It means you care. But I just want you to remember that I'm on your side, okay?" An encouraging smile is pulling up the corners of his lips and the way his eyes glaze over with affection lights a warmth in the center of me. It slowly warms the frigid feeling that had been creeping along my veins, soothing my muscles enough to unclench.

"Yeah." I exhale. "Thanks."

"No problem. Besides, I think this is his house." Marco leans forward over the steering wheel a bit, squinting to look through the windshield. "They said the one with the- yep. With the giant gay pride flag in the window. Found it."

Marco turns the car smoothly into a bumpy driveway beside the house, weeds poking up everywhere through the cracked pavement. The paint on the old wooden siding is peeling, the roof sagging.

My eyebrow raises in speculation as I climb out of the car.

"Beggars can't be choosers." Marco says, spotting my expression, and I turn to look at him twirling the key ring around his index finger, leaning against the car in a languid way that makes my mouth go a little dry.

"Yeah," I sigh, shaking my head. "Whatever, let's go do this."

"All righty." Marco smiles, walking past me around to the porch.

"And remember," I add softly, the wooden stairs squeaking under our feet, "this was your idea, so if it's weird or we get arrested, this is all you."

"Gotchya." He hums agreeably, reaching up to knock on the chipping wood. Immediately, I hear a low, gruff "Coming!" muffled behind the door.

There are a few creaking cracks of what seems to be the door sticking in its frame as someone on the other side tries to tug it open. Eventually, it gives and along with a cough worthy wave of smoke, the door opens to reveal a burly guy in a tank top and boxers, short blonde hair sticking up on end.

He squints at us.

"And how can I help you this fine Sunday?"

Immediately, I tense. Blonde, burly...

_"Knew we shouldn't have sold him so much."_

"Hi!" Marco says in a bright, friendly voice, the picture of easy confidence. "Heard you were the guy to talk to if we had a lock problem. Reiner, right?"

I'm stiff beside him, but with the guy right here, I can't say anything. So I just bite my tongue as Reiner's eyes scan suspiciously over Marco and me, before recognition flits into his eyes.

"Ohhh, hey man, you're that new DJ at Karanese, right? Yeah, yeah, come on in." He stands aside and Marco steps forward. I follow him into the living room beyond, the wood floor creaking under our steps.

"You know me? I'm flattered." Marco flashes a smile, the pungent smell of pot and cigarettes heavy in the room. Reiner shrugs.

"I make a point of knowing who's who. 'Specially the ones as talented as you." Despite my unease I feel the muscles in the corner of my mouth twitching to twist upwards. A slight dusting of pink rises in his speckled cheeks.

As Reiner goes to finagle the door shut behind us with a complicated series of kicks and nudges at the frame in seemingly strategic places, I subtly elbow Marco in the ribs.

"Told you so." I murmur to him quietly. He just rolls his eyes.

Along with the giant rainbow flag hung in the window we'd seen from the street, the amount of Bob Marley posters is nothing to sneeze at.

"Man, if this doesn't take me back." Marco whispers to me with a smile stepping further into the living room. I trail behind him like a nervous shadow.

A blonde girl is sprawled drowsily on the couch, eyes watching the bright flicker of some cartoon on the flat screen beside the window. As we walk further in she turns to eye us up and down analytically before raising her eyebrows in speculation.

"Never seen you guys around before. A bit old to be new kids at the college." She glances suspiciously up at Reiner who seems to have settled the door with a final grunt of effort and a dull wooden thud. "You sure everything's..."

"Nah, they're chill, Annie. Just here for locks anyway." Reiner says, walking back around in front of us. She doesn't reply only pulls a tired whatever-you-say face as she slides her phone over to her from the coffee table. Looking away, she begins to tap at it boredly. Reiner continues, regardless. "Besides, this is Karanese's new DJ, _totally_ chill, and- uh, sorry I don't know you."

"Jean." I say tensely, eyes still darting around the room. "I'm at Karanese now and then. Think I've seen you a few times." Reiner nods approvingly.

"Sure. Oh, yeah, sorry, sit wherever." He adds hastily, moving back towards a big arm chair beside the couch.

Marco and I end up squished into the tiny, sagging loveseat off to one side. I try not to let the warm press of his thigh against mine draw my thoughts like water swirling down a drain. Reiner leans back, fingers laced behind his head, one leg up, ankle over his other knee.

"So. Lock trouble, huh?" Reiner asks.

I nod as Marco opens his mouth to speak. Thankfully he's seemed to get the "you do all the talking, please" vibe I'd been giving off and taken it in stride.

"Yep." He says, tilting his head towards me. "Jean's key broke off in his apartment lock."

Reiner lets out a low whistle and then laughs, looking toward me, shaking his head.

"Bro, that's is the worst combination I've heard in a while. Broken key, broken lock, rented place. I don't envy you. I do envy me, though, since I get to profit off your unfortunate situation." I scowl and he just lets out another loud laugh at my expression. "I'm just kidding, chill, man."

He pulls his hands out from behind his head, leaning forward.

"Where do you live?"

"Birch Apartments." I reply, still frowning.

I don't trust this guy. He seems friendly enough, but after what I'd heard last weekend from him, I'm taking everything about him and this whole thing with a grain of salt. More like a giant salt block if I'm being honest.

"Oh, yeah, yeah, no problem."

"You can do it?" Marco asks from beside me.

"Yeah, I've fixed a few locks in that complex before. Those owners are real jerks about damage prices so I get a lot of people finding their way on over to me when stuff like this happens. That and people generally want to keep their security deposit intact."

I grudgingly shrug in agreement.

"All right, sounds good. Now, I'm gonna be straight with you-" Annie snorts from the couch and Reiner rolls his eyes, grinning. "-it's probably gonna take two or three days."

"That long?" I ask.

"I need to go check it out, see what I need to fix, what needs to be replaced, make the rounds to people that I can get parts from, then _actually_ fix it. Not to mention duplicating a broken key is tricky business. I'll do it for you, no problem, but yeah, it'll probably take 'til Tuesday or Wednesday afternoon."

Slumping back against the worn cushion of the loveseat, I pull a hand down my face. I try to use the warmth of Marco's shoulder seeping through the thin fabric of my sleeve to ground myself, let it grasp me from the looming pull of racing panic.

"I don't have any clothes." I mutter to myself, muffled through my fingers. "Especially my work clothes. Shit..."

"Hey." Reiner says, face falling from its easy grin into concern, studying me considering. "If you need somewhere to crash..." The words jerk my focus back to him.

"Huh?"

His expression is serious, as if he's trying to comfort and reassure me. My brow furrows in confusion so he continues on quickly.

"I have a spare room, man. I'm never one to let people wander if they don't have a place. Code of honor. We take care of people, yeah? And I think maybe some of Bert's stuff might fit you if you need it..."

My mouth falls open but no words come out, confusion blocking the words on their path up from my lungs somewhere around my Adam's apple. This doesn't make any sense. This dude is a _drug dealer_. And not the of the harmless pot variety. Of the _laced ecstacy_ variety. Why would he possibly-?

"That's really kind of you." Marco cuts in, taking control of the situation with one glance at my distressed expression, "But Jean's already kind of camped out with me for the time being. Thanks for the offer, though."

One corner of Reiner's mouth curls upwards and he sits back in his chair, slowly nodding as he glances back and forth between the two of us.

"Is that so?"

I can feel the heat starting to flood my face.

"Y-yeah, thanks for offering." I manage, gaze falling to my lap where I pick at the skin around my nails absently.

"No problem, man." Reiner assures. "I'll come around tomorrow to take a look at your door. What apartment are you?"

"D32." I say. Looking up, I see Reiner nodding, scribbling on the top most post-it note of a pad he has on the coffee table beside him.

"Birch Apartments..." he repeats under his breath as he writes it down, "D32, Jean, broken lock..."

"Reiner... ?" All of us look in the direction of a new voice that calls from down the hallway past the other side of the couch on which Annie is still lounging, tapping away on her phone which has been buzzing intermittently throughout our conversation. "Reiner, where'd you-?"

The sleepy drawl to the words is explained when a tall, scrawny guy―the other one from the club last weekend, I realize ―shuffles around the corner. His brown hair is sticking up on end as he rubs his eyes tiredly, wearing nothing but a giant baggy white t-shirt and black and red striped, well... panties.

"Mornin', babe, how was your nap?" Reiner teases, barely concealed laughter pushing on the edges of his words.

The residual warmth still simmering in my cheeks flares up to a full blush as the guy's hand falls away from his face and he blinks blearily around at the collection of people in the living room, all now staring at him.

Eyes growing suddenly wide, the guy practically squeaks, jumping back around the corner while Reiner bursts into a deep, hearty laugh that seems to resonate within his chest. The guy is apparently to be hovering back in the hallway, just out of sight, voice muffled around a wall when he speaks again.

"Reiner! Why didn't you tell me we had company!" He hisses, mortified.

"Because it was more fun to show off your adorable panties, Bertie." Reiner is grinning widely, biting his lip. Beside me, I feel Marco's form trembling with suppressed laughter. Infectious, the atmosphere does seem to pull at the corners of my mouth.

"You're a giant dick!" Bert calls back, the thuds of his footsteps on the wooden floor fading as he disappears back into the depths of the house.

"Weren't complaining 'bout that last night!" Reiner calls and in response a door slams somewhere in the back of the house. The blonde snorts, still smiling.

From the couch, Annie sighs heavily, rolling her eyes, her gaze blinking slowly up to me and Marco on the loveseat.

"See what I have to deal with?" She asks tiredly.

Beside me, hand over his mouth, Marco's laughter seems to spill over his fingers, first in choking little snorts and gasps until he finally gives up, hand falling to brace against his knee and his eyes press shut with the force of it. The laughs coming in beautiful full bursts and rasping inhales.

I can't help but watch him, a smile lighting my own face, mesmerized by the pure, full joy that seems to be illuminating him, lighting him up in such a captivating way.

"He's a peach." Reiner chuckles from the chair and when I tear my eyes from Marco who now has his hand pressed to his chest attempting to take slow, deep breaths to steady himself, he's studying the both of us. "And sexy as fuck in panties," he adds, "but I have dibs so don't even think about it."

I snort, despite myself.

"Anyway." He continues over Marco's residual giggling still bubbling through the slow breaths he's forcing himself to take here and there. "Like I said, I'll come over tomorrow to check it out, all right." Standing up, he walks towards me, offering a sticky note with a line of numbers scrawled across it. "Here's my number."

Marco, face still flushed brightly, eyes seeming to glitter with the wetness that had filmed over them while laughing, nods. I stand up as well taking the paper from Reiner's hands and slipping it into my pocket.

"Thanks a ton." Marco says, offering his hand. But Reiner only gives him a smug, pitying smile before pushing past his outstretched arm and clapping him in a quick hug.

I brace myself when he comes to hug me too and I swear his arms are probably thicker than most of my leg.

"No problem. Any time." He says, releasing me and stepping back. Making his way back to the door, he kicks at the frame in a few places and tugging before the door unsticks.

"I'll let you know how much it'll end up being once I look at it, all right?" he says, holding the door open for us as we walk back out onto the porch. "And if you need anything else, I know people so don't hesitate to hit me up."

"Sure thing!" Marco calls over his shoulder, raising one arm to flick his hand in a small wave. We walk down the creaky wooden steps, and follow the cracked pavement that snakes its way around to the side of the house where Marco's car is parked.

As I climb in to the passenger's seat, hearing the assorted sounds of the bang of Marco's door, the whiz and click of seatbelts, jangle of keys as if from far away, I decide not to bring Reiner and Bert up to Marco.

Looking over at him, body twisted around in the seat, arm reached across to my head rest to look out the rear window as he backs slowly out onto the street again, the tension seems to fade from my body like the slide of a mixer tab. After the conversation this morning and in the car earlier, the jittery uneasiness around Marco had seemed to dissipate.

As he squints at street signs, trying to find our way back out of the labyrinthine mess of suburban streets and towards town again, I watch him.

If he says he and Erwin and the rest of the people at Karanese understand the severity of what's going on and are taking steps for it...I trust him.

Eventually we ease our way back out onto one of the main roads, the setting sun catching the sky alight in bright reds and oranges that trickle through the outstretched branches of trees like glitter through splayed fingers.

"All right!" Marco announces cheerful, letting out a relieved exhale. He turns to me, face bright with excitement. "This trip has been a little too quiet for my taste. I vote it's time for music."

I grin, reaching automatically for his brick of an iPod in the small cubby beyond the cup holders.

"Are we spinning the wheel of fate again?" I ask, feeling the thing softly whir to life in my hands.

Marco pauses, considering.

I watch him, studying the subtle curves in the muscles of his arms, the line of his jaw, the soft wave of his hair. The car passes through a patch of light dying the pavement burnt golden by the sunset and it sets the tips of his dark hair alight with a radiant shine around his face, like a frame of reflected sun.

"I have a playlist on there." He starts, eyes trained back out the windshield, "called Daylight."

"Oh yeah? Why should we play your music?" I ask playfully. He doesn't look over at me, just smiles softly.

"I'm the DJ. And it's my job to make my music _the_ music." I see his tongue dart out to wet his lips, leaving them shining in the rays of the dying sun. "That is, if you trust me to do it."

I bite my lip, looking down to the iPod in my hands, toying with the output cord, unable to keep my eyes on his face, lit up with setting sun.

But the easiness in my body and mind, the way his soft, assuring movements read more like dance to me than anything else, like something beautifully composed with painstaking intention...it tells me that yes, I do trust him.

I always had.

Quickly finding the playlist, I hit play, setting it back into the cup holder.

And as soon as the song starts, I close my eyes against the rhythm. It seems to rush forward from the speakers to wrap around me like a surprised embrace from someone you haven't seen in a long, long while.

He is smiling, reaching over to crank the volume, slide the treble and bass until the music is the air around us, each movement we make now as if we are swimming through it.

It is flowing, rolling over us like the light of the sunset over the car, bright and uplifting like the curve of his smile or the rush of his laugh. It is strong like his outstretched hand tugging me up from a bed last night, reassuring like the way his voice had sounded wrapped around the words "somewhere you _belong_."

I'd trusted him with so much already.

I'd trusted him with my safe place, my dancing, my music, trusted him to give me the escape I needed. I'd trusted him by dipping my toes into the waters of being brave, my open vulnerability of conversation that first night we'd spoken. I'd trusted him even last night with my desire for him, plain and unguarded. And today, I'd trusted him with the plan to fix the stupid predicament I'd stumbled my way in to.

I'd trusted him to step into all the places where I was shaking and nervous and floundering and steady me.

And at the moment I'm feeling pretty damn solid.

My body is swaying to the beats, feet tapping buoyantly on the mat beneath my shoes, eyelids drooping, half in my head and half in the music. Distantly, I think I hear him over the pounding music as it lulls, singing along.

"Silent love is calling faith... to shatter me through your hallways. Into echoes you can feel... and rehearse the way you heal..."

I watch his lips move around the words, glowing and bright, the spots of light speckled and uneven, flashing out and back as we pass under trees and traffic lights, leaving momentary patches of darker shade across his skin and his face.

I know Marco is not some perfect, infallible person. He'd shown me that. Last night, blatantly with his growling words and grasping fingers, and this morning, subtly by simply not hiding a few white pills from my line of sight.

Just like he'd promised from that first day, he'd given me a glimpse of his weaknesses, of the places where he bends under pressure, where he is working and trying so very hard to reach for happiness with faltering hands just like the rest of us.

I realize now that every light that has ever illuminated the dark places of the world has done its fair share of flickering.

And that fact makes me want to open to him even more, to reach between my ribs and unfurl my most vulnerable places, to bare my beating heart to the cold, harsh air of the world if he so desired to see that deep within me. Because I know he would go to the ends of the earth to find a way to sew me back up again.

"I'll build a city that dreams for two..."

Because I trust him to.

Marco looks over at me, beautiful, eyes bright with music and sunset.

Suddenly, he reaches over to roll down the windows, music flowing out onto the street, the muggy air of August evening seeping inward.

"You know the words, right?" He yells over the swelling music.

"Of course I do!" I yell back. "This song was everywhere back in the spring!"

"Then sing it with me!"

Immediately I pale, head swiveling around to the streets of people doing their Sunday afternoon shopping, the vibrating car whipping noisily past them.

"B-but isn't it a little loud? Aren't we gonna annoy people?" I ask, my body stuttering in its unconscious bob and flow to the beat. Marco laughs, the sound bright and strong again.

"Who cares?" He yells, reaching to turn the volume dial even louder. "We're young! We're supposed to do annoying things! And how does any of that matter at _all_ , Jean, in the face of how fucking _alive_ this makes you feel?!"

"You're crazy!" I shout, but I'm grinning now too. And against the creeping nausea of frowning faces and disapproving turns of heads I find a solid grip to steady myself in the brightness of his eyes and the elation of his smile.

"Make 'em dance, just like you!" He starts singing instead of a response, thumbs tapping animatedly on the steering wheel, torso twisting to the beat.

"Cause you make me mooove..." I start, a bit softly, the pounding, swirling sound around us sweeping up and swallowing my voice.

"Yeah, you always make me go-!" Marco sings, strong and unabashedly, his whole body moving with the words.

 _"And to be all of that loudly and unapologetically_ ," he'd said.

"I'll run away with your footsteps!" I sing, letting the hesitance flow from me like the glimmering shifting flashes of sun as we drive. "I'll build a city that dreams for two.!"

I close my eyes, the inside of my head now alight and glowing and everything is music and beats and the sensation of the wind on my face and the sound of Marco's voice beside me, meshing with mine.

"And if you lose yourself, _I will find you!_ "

I am shaking and shivering up to the drop that makes me gasp, my eyes snapping open. The pavement before us shimmering, the city around us lit up by the setting sun, and I am swimming through bubbling music that lifts me up and up and up....

And Marco is beside me, shining with uneven spots of flickering sun that flare and flash blindingly in one breath and fade to patches of shade in the next.

But I don't care.

Because in spite of all the shadows that linger around our shoes and lick up the backs of our calves on the drive home that evening, he's still the brightest goddamn thing I've ever seen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [fanfic/podfic blog](http://zoe-bug.tumblr.com/) | [personal](http://xiexiecaptain.tumblr.com/) | [twitter](https://twitter.com/xiexiecaptain)


	8. Illuminate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The intensity, the incredulous adoration with which he is talking is pinning me to the spot. 
> 
> "When music hits you, you _light up_ inside. And it's...beautiful. That's why I want to. Because I know you'll _understand_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Real quick quick warning for this chapter specifically: mentions of past depression and self-harm! I added the tag but for returning readers, I want to make sure you guys knew. Watch out for yourselves!)
> 
> Ok though, we need to talk about the AMAZING FANART PEOPLE HAVE DONE FOR CS!!!  
> The phenomenal [maxxiegalaxy](http://maxxiegalaxy.tumblr.com) drew [Jean looking SMOKIN in his rave clothes](http://maxxiegalaxy.tumblr.com/post/107384316247/raver-jean-from-the-fic-cutting-shapes-by-the) and [Sasha being a hooping goddess](http://maxxiegalaxy.tumblr.com/post/107436196602/sasha-from-the-fic-cutting-shapes-by) and [daijuuyon](http://daijuyon.tumblr.com) drew [Marco with some hella wicked decks!](http://daijuuyon.tumblr.com/post/108238706888/dj-marco-from-the-fic-cutting) Go give them and their art love it is aWESOMEEE
> 
> Also, people have been asking about a playlist for CS music, so I've put together an [8tracks playlist for CS](http://8tracks.com/xiexiecaptain/loudly-and-unapologetically-cs-pt-1) with all the music that's shown up so far (ch 1-8). Music in chapters 9 and on will be on the [part 2 playlist](http://8tracks.com/xiexiecaptain/cracking-open-cs-pt-2)
> 
> I have gotten so many amazing comments and message about this fic since last time, you guys are simply wonderful! I appreciate every single one of you. To be honest, a few chapters back I was feeling really terrible about this fic and even contemplated kinda giving up on it, but I've gotten over my self-doubt and you lovely people had no small part in that. I really appreciate you guys. I hope you'll enjoy this chapter and the ones to come~
> 
> SONG LIST:  
> 1.["Language" - Porter Robinson (Nightmare House Remix)](https://soundcloud.com/nightmarehouse/language)  
> 2.["Fellow Feeling" - Porter Robinson](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ardc3nrQMxw)
> 
> Enjoy!

"To be honest, aside from the pancake mix, I don't really have much by way of food," Marco's saying as he pushes open the door to his apartment. "So, I was thinking we could order takeout. Cause it's that or whatever old boxed stuff I've got shoved away in the cabinets."

"I vote take out." Reaching up, I run a hand through my hair, only to pause and internally wince at the stiff, slightly oily texture that greets my fingers. "And, uh, maybe a shower if that's all right with you?" I'd forgone one earlier this afternoon at the paralyzing prospect of being naked in his apartment. But the grungy feeling of my hair and growing comfort in Marco’s presence is slowly overtaking it.

I'm pretty sure I imagine the barely-there hitch in the way his back expands over his breath.

"Oh, uh yeah, of course," he says not turning to me, tossing his keys onto the dining room table with a clatter. "I could actually use one sometime tonight too. Nice to meet another night showerer." Hearing the smile in his voice I give a companionable smirk and shrug.

"Why would do something in the morning that you can do ahead of time and sleep longer?"

"I like your style," he laughs. Hesitating for a moment, I make my way back over to the bed in the corner of the living room, emptying my pockets of my phone and (what's left of) my keys onto the pile of my rave clothes from the night before and-

"My iPod," I murmur to myself, nearly dazed as I pick it up from where it had been resting near the edge of the coffee table since I'd changed into Marco's lent clothes last night. Headphones wrapped neatly around it, untouched, its dark, cold screen stares up at me.

"Oh, yeah, it's been on the table since this morning," Marco says distractedly, the deep suction of the opening and closing refrigerator door cracks under his words before he turns to me with a Coke can in one hand.   

"Last night, actually." I mutter, thumb running absentmindedly over the corner as I stare down at it, incredulous. "I slept without my headphones in."   

"You sound like someone just told you the sky's not really blue," Marco scoffs and the crack of the can opening nearly swallows the sound as he looks over at me from across the room. "Why do you look so spooked?"   

"Because I never sleep without music," I tell him, voice hushed. "Never. Can't fall asleep unless I have it."   

His eyes narrow in a speculative squint and he sets his drink down on the counter.   

"Really..." His response is more a considering statement than a question. His head tilts forward in a slight nod as if my response cranks some cog forward behind his eyes.   

"Ah- nevermind, forget I said anything. I was probably tired. Probably just the"― _way the sheets smelled like you, the way I could still feel your hands sliding along my skin, the way your voice sounded in my ear when you wanted me, the way I felt safe with you even when I didn't understand why I was, the―_ "rum." I finish lamely, looking away as he reaches for his drink to take another sip. "Probably the rum."   

"Uh-huh..." He nods slowly again, seeming to gauge if he should humor me or confront me at the blatant dismissal. I stare at my feet. "Well, if you need a charger for tonight, I have an extra. Now, I don't know about you, but I'm starving." He sets his drink down on the counter and quickly shoves his arms behind his back, voice light. "Pick a hand."   

A warmth grows in my chest at his careful, diligent attention to my comfort, his willingness to ease around things that make me bite my lips and pick at my nails, his contentment to give me both time and space.   

What could I have done to possibly warrant such detailed attending? What could I have said to earn entry into such a thoughtful, beautiful mind as his?   

"Right." I reply, nodding toward one of his shoulders.

"Chinese it is. I'll grab the menu. Should be in one of these drawers somewhere..." He trails off, muttering to himself as he turns back towards the kitchenette, reaching out for drawer handles. I sit down on the edge of the bed, the iPod still in my hand glowing to life after a knock of my still absentmindedly swiping thumb hits the lock button.

_Language (Nightmare House Remix) ― Porter Robinson_

The title and album info begin to scroll slowly across the screen, accompanied by the blue and grey of the artwork sliced into shining shards between the stretch of the headphones still wrapped across the screen.

"Aha!" Marco calls, followed by a thwack and a sharp curse. He straightens up and turns to me, one eye squinted in a wince. The long rectangle of the takeout menu flutters at the movement of his hand as it rubs across the back of his head. "Found the menu."

I snort in response. He rolls his eyes, grinning, before glancing down to my hands and the soft light shining up from them.

"Oh, hey, if you wanna play something, the speakers out here are decent. Nothing like in my studio, but they're pretty nice." He offers, grabbing his can of soda and striding back across the room to me.

"Yeah?"

"Mhm." He offers the menu to me. "Pick whatever and I can set it up while you figure out what you want. My treat."

"Thanks," I mumble sheepishly as he plucks the gently whirring rectangle from my hands, replacing it with the menu.

"After we get it ordered, I'll show you how the shower works and where the towels are and all that if you want. I think I might take one too, actu..." The words dissipate mid-thought as I see his gaze fall to my iPod, screen still alight with the paused track info. "You were listening to Language?" He asks quietly. "This is the remix from..." He begins to add softly to himself before trailing off once again. The unfinished sentence seems to hang between us like darkness and music and streetlights.

"Oh..." I can feel the heat rising to my cheeks. "Well, uh, yeah..."

"Do you like Porter or just the song?"

_I like the way you made it mean something. How you made me feel it pulsing through my veins like blood. How you made me breathe it in like air._

_I could hear nails on a chalkboard and you could convince me it was music._

"I haven't listened to much of him, to be honest. It's not stuff you can dance to." I admit instead. Marco lets out a short, huffing laugh, setting his drink down on the TV stand. He reaches behind the TV and speakers into a mess of wires as I continue. "Doesn't sound like most EDM."

"That would be an understatement." He sets my iPod down on the TV stand as well to free up his other hand, attempting untangle a few cords. Leaning down behind the screen, his next question is a little muffled when it comes. "Would you believe me if I told you my favorite song was a Porter Robinson song?"

"Well, I saw a few on your Daylight playlist. Is it on there?"

"What a snoop!" He teases and the muted clack of cords punctuates my quiet laugh. "But yeah, it's on that one- There you are, you sneaky AUX cord!" His head reappears from behind the TV, holding a skinny black cable in the air like a trophy. "That playlist has a lot of my favorites."

"Will you play it?" I ask, watching as he slides the looped headphones off the end, unplugging them in the process.

"The rest of the playlist?"

"Your favorite song. Will you play it for me?" His hands pause, like the moment a ball tossed upward hangs weightless in the air before falling back to earth. He licks his lips as he plugs the end of the AUX cord into the headphone jack.

"I-" He punches out a short exhale before starting again, not looking at me as he continues. The words are choppy and hesitant. "Jean, there's- there's a reason it's my favorite song. But it's something I always kind of have to...brace myself to explain."

"O-oh," I choke. "Marco, I-I'm sorry, you don't-"

"It's not that. It-" He lets out a breathless, humorless laugh and shakes his head. I watch his hands come to fidget with the hem of his shirt. “Dumb for me to get nervous about it since it’s kinda what I do, right? Let music tell a story for me. But it's hard to let someone else tell a really...personal part of your own. And I guess that's why I'm always kind of reluctant.”

The uncomfortable knot between his eyebrows that grows deeper with every sentence sparks a deep, violent chorus of _wrong wrong wrong_ in me. As if seeing him this uneasy violates some basic law of nature.

I want to leap across the table, close the space between us, run my hands through his hair and across his cheeks until the soft lights of the living room make his eyes shine again.

“I'm a firm believer in the power of music to convey things that can't be, like, conceptualized otherwise.” He continues, fingers still worrying at the fabric of his shirt. “But when I give up my story to it, there's a lot that can be lost in translation that way. I always feel vulnerable not knowing if I'm going to be understood. And when it’s something so difficult, it’s just...it’s scary.” His lips press into a tight, sad smile, his eyes squeezing shut. “I’m sorry this isn’t making any sense.”

"No, n-no, Marco, I get it. If it's something you're not-" I splutter. The urge to comfort him, to soothe away the stiffness of his shoulders and the clench of his jaw is overwhelming.

"No." He interrupts firmly, quieting me. He finally turns to face me and shakes his head. “That’s it exactly, though. You _get_ it.” His expression is the same burning, amazed look from the first night we’d talked, from our conversation on this bed last night, from outside his studio door, as if he’s witnessing something he'd never let himself hope for.

“Get what?” I almost whisper.

He takes in a deep breath that visibly swells his chest and his gaze burns like the heat of the sun.

"The way you feel music is incredible, Jean. You _understand_. I can _see_ it in you. How you smile at places in songs that other people don't think to find beautiful. How you almost...almost shiver on certain notes. How when drops hit, your eyes squeeze shut and you look like- like the universe just told you its secrets." The intensity, the incredulous adoration with which he is talking is pinning me to the spot. "When music hits you, you _light up_ inside. And it's...beautiful. That's why I want to. Because I know you'll _understand_."

"Marco..." His name comes out breathless.

"But-” He swallows, gaze dropping from mine, suddenly looking very far away. “Not now, okay? I promise I will, but... later." He pauses, expression dissolving into one more tender, more adoring, before looking back up to me. "For now, just figure out what you want to eat and I'll finish getting this set. Sound good?"

I swallow and he turns to reach his hand toward the line of buttons along the vertical side of the flat screen.

"Thank you." I say softly. And the words seem too heavy, too much like a confession or an admission of something substantial than they normally should. But Marco - attentive, intuitive Marco - stills once more in that way he often does, as if my words and actions are so crucial to understand accurately that they require his body to put everything else on hold until he's finished processing them fully.

My heart swells at the sight.

He nods back at me, the only sound in the silence between us the nearly silent buzz of the overhead light and the soft click of the center wheel button before the music, crisp and clear, rushes forth like water from a dam.

I close my eyes against it for a moment, letting the floating, scattered pieces within me settle like dust after a violent tremor. I think I hear a soft sigh, a barely-there exhalation, before opening my eyes again and unfolding the menu resting in my lap.

 

 

 

 **From Sasha:** [talk about going fast, yall moved in together!]

 

 **From Jean:** [*eye roll* i told you im just staying here until my doors fixed]

 

 **From Sasha:** [well that gives you til then to work ur charm!]

 

 **From Jean:** [*eye roll x2 combo*]

 

 **From Sasha:** [im just teasing. but i can tell u like him. and theres a lot to like about u. put yourself out there]

 

 **From Jean:** [ye ye ok whatever]

 

 **From Sasha:** [if u need anything let me know. snacks, a condom. im the cool mom :D]

 

 **From Jean:** [*eye roll x3 combo* *level up*]

 

 **From Sasha:** [ok snooty]

 

 **From Jean:** [ <3]

 **From Jean:** [hey hows mikasa doing?]

 

 **From Sasha:** [mikasa? shes fine]

 

 **From Jean:** [...]

 **From Jean:** [is everything ok?]

 

 **From Sasha:** [uh yeah]

 

 **From Jean:** [whats wrong?]

 

 **From Sasha:** [shes totes fine!]

 

 **From Jean:** [...sasha are u sure things are ok?]

 

 **From Sasha:** [honest!! ull hear from us the second anyone needs anything!]

 

 **From Jean:** [ok thanks i was just worried cause mikasa wasnt doing so hot yesterday. armin either.]

 

 **From Sasha** : [wait u talked to armin?]

 

 **From Jean** : [um yeah we had lunch why?]

 

 **From Sasha** : [did they...say anything?]

 

 **From Jean:** [what do you mean?]

 

 **From Sasha:** [uh well theres just been some stuff going on w/ them i guess...last night and today...]

 

 **From Jean:** [are they ok??]

 

 **From Sasha:** [i shud let eren call u k?]

 

 **From Jean:** [sasha tell me if armins ok /please/]

 

 **From Sasha:** [they were fine last i heard. its just kinda complicated ok? ill get eren to call u later. just focus on getting it in with the hottie ;P]

 

 **From Jean:** [...]

 

 **From Sasha** : [plz jean? u know mama sasha always takes care of her babies]

 

 **From Jean:** [...ok. but you text me the /minute/ anythings wrong]

 **From Jean:** [and make eren call me soon. i know he has to work tomorrow but still.]

 

 **From Sasha:** [will do]

 **From Sasha** : [...u sure u dont need a condom??]

 

 **From Jean:** [bYE]

 

 **From Sasha:** [:))))))))  <3]

 **From Sasha:** [(send me deets)]

 

"I said _bye_!"

"Jean?" I start at the sound of the voice, nearly knocking over the forgotten Styrofoam container of chicken and rice precariously balanced on my lap. Music is still flowing, comfortingly winding through the living room in a harmonic, bubbling warmth. “Are you okay?”

I look up just in time to see Marco emerge from the hallway, same sweatpants hanging low on his hips, glasses precariously clutched in one hand as he struggles to pull the shirt he's now wrestling with down over his damp skin and hair.

I swallow.

The dark planes of his chest and stomach flex as he twists, huffing to himself.

Connie was fucking right.

Freckles. _Everywhere._

A dense spattering up along his sides, speckled between the ridges of his ribs that I can see when he bends and inhales sharply, arching over the subtle curves of his hipbones. They seem to taper out as they creep inward toward his belly button, leaving a smooth stretch of dark skin. But I can't help letting my eyes hungrily follow the steep line of coarse hair there as it descends below the waistband of his pants.

I swallow harder.

But suddenly that beautiful, glowing skin is cut from my line of sight as he finally manages to tug his shirt back down - _why, no, fuck, c'mon_ \- over his torso.

"Earth to Jean." I hear him say, followed by the muted clacking of his glasses I now see him sliding on when my gaze drifts dazedly up to his face.

"Huh?"

The way his cheeks bunch as he grins at my expression pushes one side of his glasses up into a tilt. Fuck that's cute.

"I heard you talking and I didn't know what was going on." The bed dips as he returns to his earlier spot beside me on the bed facing the TV. I try not to focus on how when he settles, his leg ends up pressed next to mine and he doesn't pull it away.

"O-oh, no, sorry." I mutter, sliding the keyboard of my phone up and reaching to set it lightly on the table. "Just texting my nosey friend. Letting her know what was up with my door and that I slept here last night and everything was set."

"That's good." He says, reaching for the can of soda he'd abandoned earlier on the coffee table in favor of his shower. "By the way, I...realized I didn't really say so, but you're welcome to stay here as long as you need. You're not imposing on me at all."

I let out a nervous laugh and run one of my hands through my hair, still the barest hint damp from my own shower earlier. I pray the heat on my cheeks isn't something he can see.

"Even though I'm taking up your bed?" I pause after the words, considering them, then cock my head. "Wait. If I slept in your bed last night," I turn to look at him, "where did you sleep?"

Marco's eyes widen for a moment before he looks away, hands clutching his soda can as if that's the only thing he can think to do with them.

"I, uh, well..." I watch another drop of water that had accumulated on the hair at the back of his neck break free. "After what I- what happened, I wanted to give you space. I didn't know if you would be mad or scared about it so I thought it was best to stay out of your way until morning."

He doesn't look at me as he says this, although the warmth of his thigh against mine through the fabric of his sweatpants and the pair of old basketball shorts he dug up for me from the depths of his closet earlier is as steady and comforting as ever.

"You...did sleep, right?" I ask hesitantly, the possibility dropping into my gut like a heavy weight.

"Yeah!" He says a little too quickly. "...Yeah, I did."

"If you didn't I'm gonna feel like shit." I tell him, stern expression boring into him.

"I promise!" He turns to me, one hand extracted from the can in his lap to wave frantically. "Like- like- 5AM I fell asleep at right my desk!"

I just groan and roll sideways onto the bed, face planting in the mound of tangled blankets.

"I'm the worst." I mumble into the covers. It still smells like him and the moment following my inhale wipes the sickly guilt expanding in my gut briefly.

"Jean, c'mon, no. It's fine."

"You let me stay here out of the blue at 3AM and I end up making you sleep in an _office chair_." I reach up and yank the covers over my head. "Worst Person of the Year Award goes to-"

"Stop being a drama queen." He demands from above me and I feel a tug on the blanket I'm holding around my head and shoulders so I only grip harder against him. I can practically hear him rolling his eyes.

"Says you." I bite back. "You're the biggest drama queen." I bite my lip against a smile I try not to let show in my voice

"Rude." Another tug. "Jean, come on."

"Nope. I'm gonna stay here in my snuggle cave of shame forever."

"You're not gonna come out?" He asks.

"Never."

"Never ever?"

"Nope."

He sighs dramatically.

"Well I guess I'll just sleep in my _uncomfortable_ office chair again. With my _cold, hard_ desk as a pillow..." I don't respond, only let out a gruff mixture of a huff and a whine in the back of my throat. He scoffs at the sound.

"Ok, I'll come out." I finally relent, absentmindedly rubbing my cheek into the soft sheets. "But on one condition."

"Which is?" He asks.

"You take your bed back."

"Nuh-uh, no can do. Code of honor." There's more tugging at the blanket over my head.

"Marcooo." I whine, gripping them steadfast. I hear him sigh.

"How about a compromise? You keep the bed- no, no, let me finish before you make those disgruntled cat noises again, mister." I abruptly stop said noises that had been forming in my throat again. "You keep the bed but we move the coffee table and put down all my extra blankets and stuff and I sleep out here with you."

"I'm not gonna make you sleep on the floor-!" I start to object but he cuts me off again.

"Ahpapap," he shushes. "Compromise."

I sigh and slowly release the covers to let him pull them back. They slide off my shoulders and cool air flows over face, flushed from the heat of my breaths in the confined space. Still flopped sideways I simply turn my head in order to scowl up at him.

"Fine. Happy?"

"Mhm. C'mon, it'll be fun. Like a sleep over!" I give him the most deadpan expression I can manage. "Pff, don't give me that look." I scowl harder, sticking out my lower lip and he tugs his between his teeth against its corners pulling it upwards.

"What?"

"Nothing. You're just kinda cute when you pout." He says, shrugging as he gets up from the bed, leaving me shocked and decidedly more flushed than before in his wake. "Now, on your feet, soldier. You're gonna help me set it up and then take my bed for the night."

I manage to swallow back the frenzied scream rising in the back of my throat and sit up.

"Because compromise?"

He grins, bright and radiant, his cheeks pushing up his glasses again and offers his hand to me.

"Now you're getting it."

 

 

"All right, I set my alarm for 8:30 so I have time to drop you off at work." He says, turning back over away from the alarm clock transplanted to the floor beside the blanket nest we'd splayed across the floor beside his misplaced bed. We'd ended up shoving the coffee table off to the side before setting to work layering the blankets and sleeping bags he'd had stuffed into the top of his closet into something suitable for sleeping on.

The overhead light is switched off and the single soft glow of the floor lamp beside the bed casts long shadows across the rest of the living room.

"You really don't have to." I tell him for the third time while shifting the pillow beneath my head. From my elevated position on the bed I watch him wrestle with a few tangled covers. "I take the bus to work all the time."

"What's the point of you taking the bus when I have a car and we're both going to the same part of town?" He asks. I roll my eyes.

"To save gas." I offer. "Cause you don't have to."

"What if I want to? Oh, by the way, I found a polo shirt that might fit you after digging around a bit. You can borrow it so you don't get into too much trouble about dress code."

"I-" I bite my tongue, knowing any argument would more than likely be met with harsh dissent. "Thank you." I decide on instead. "That really helps."

He smiles at my words.

"I'm glad. Good night, Jean."

"Night." I reply, reaching up to the lamp to flick it off.

"Oh!" He exclaims and I retract my hand, looking down at him. I watch as he scooches toward the TV stand on the opposite side of the sea of blankets from the bed, perplexed. But then he snatches my iPod from where we'd left it lying when we'd shut off the music earlier. "Your iPod. Need that to sleep, right?"

A lump forms in my throat at the realization that once again I'd been ready to― _let the closeness of his comforting looks and the honesty of his soothing words and this bed that smells like sleepy Sunday mornings and home convince me that with him here I can―_ sleep without it.

The words can't seem to force their way past the jam in my throat. So I just nod mutely as he twists towards me and I reach to grab the iPod and tangle of headphones from his offering hand.

The metal is a cool, sharp contrast to the warmth of his fingers against mine when they touch. I glance away from his face but I don't have to look to know exactly what expression is most likely softening his features.

Unwinding the headphones, I feel his eyes on me like a burning ray of sunlight while I pop both buds into my ears without looking up.

I don't press play as I hear him turn over again, his back to me once more. Reaching up to flick off the light, I watch the rise and fall of the thin blanket over the curve of his shoulder as it's suddenly swallowed by darkness.

Biting my lip, I turn over in the covers too, slowly taking both headphones out so I can hear the quiet, lulling rhythm of his inhales and exhales clearly.

"You're like the kindest person I've ever met." I whisper incredulously to the pillow, staring at the headphones laying on the bed sheet beside me.

It doesn’t cross my mind that he’d heard it so I think nothing of it when there is no reply to my muttered comment aside from the muted slide of fabric in the darkness of the room.

The words come, whisper quiet, after a long stretching silence and I still, straining to hear.

"I'm really not." They sound like delicate glass, like translucence and fragility, like they aren't meant for me to hear. "But you make me want to be."

Frozen with hands clenching silently in the sheets, I wait for more of those stolen, secret words.

But no more come.

So after a lingering, infinite moment I finally pull the covers up to my nose and try to match his slow, steady pattern of inhales and exhales with my own. My mind drifts closer and closer to sleep as with each breath comes the scent of fresh laundry and warmth and him.

 

 

 

Kitts barks at me to stop drumming my fingers around 2:00 after he wakes up from his nap long enough to take a meander around the deserted store, disappearing back into his isolated office just as quickly. I just roll my eyes and take up my anxious fidgeting again the minute I hear his door click shut.

The day had _dragged_.

With nothing to distract me aside from some inventory work and shop floor upkeep, I'd had the whole place spotless and stock up to date before noon. Which left nothing but the slow ticking of the clock and one or two straggling customers to keep me officially occupied.

It didn't help that every time I'd reach up to shelf some memory cards or laptop cases, the slightly too big polo shirt would move and I'd be breathing in Marco's smell all over again.

He'd texted me around noon, accompanied by a selfie of him pouting tiredly behind a desk, the figure of some woman rushing past blurred behind him.

 

 **From Marco:** [hope youre having a more relaxing day than me. its been so busy around here blek. Happy Monday, right? :/]

 

From what I'd gathered on the ride in, Marco'd started working weekdays as a temp receptionist at some office building. Nice job for him, he'd said, nine-to-five so it doesn't get in the way of DJ-ing weekends.

How he'd managed to find a job within a week of moving here, I'd had no idea. Then again the guy's showing me things about this town I hadn't known even having lived in the area my whole life.

I guess if you know the right people, they point you to the right places.

I stare at the picture for a little longer than is probably good for me, trying to convince myself it's not weird― _no of course not, it's not weird, honesty, right?―_ that I save it to my phone before I'm interrupted by another soft vibration.

 

 **From Marco:** [welp back to the grindstone see you at 5]

 

Not everyone can have a lazy job like me, I guess.

The afternoon grates by.

I text Reiner about an estimate on my door resurrection date before filing some orders on and off between surfing Reddit and listening to music. By the time 4:00 rolls around my skin is crawling with boredom. And anticipation. And a little worry, if I'm going to be honest.

I'd reread the text conversation with Sasha from last night as well and as the day wears on, the distinct lack of calls from Eren or Armin or _anyone_ manifests as seed of queasiness between my ribs.

So when I'm halfway through packing up my things―4:45 is basically 5:00 when Kitt left half an hour ago anyway―and my phone starts chiming a steady stream of bubbles that pop in air like weightless comfort, I almost knock over a rack of headphone packages scrambling to grab it.

I catch Eren's name blinking on the screen and swipe the screen quickly, nearly dropping it in the process.

"Hey, man, what's up?" I try to maneuver the phone into the crook of my neck to hold it there with my shoulder as I finish shutting down the computers for the day.

"Uh, not much. Are you free right now? Sasha said to call you, so..." Eren's voice is weary through the speaker and my mouth twists into a frown.

"Oh, yeah, yeah, I'm glad you did. I'm just packing up at work." I tell him hurriedly.

"So you- like, Connie told me about the whole...you going home with the DJ thing." I roll my eyes.

"Sasha can't keep her mouth shut can she?" I groan. It's Saturday morning all over again.

"Hey, Connie was excited about it. Said he was gonna draw you guys into one of his new issues cause you look good together." I roll my eyes.

"Are we superheroes yet?"

"Not from the sketches I saw."

"What's the point of having a friend who draws comic books if you can't even be a superhero?" The words come out in a laugh but there when is no echoing sentiment on the other end from Eren, I frown. "Anyway, you didn't call about my love life."

"No- I'm just trying to figure out what you were around for. You know, to- to where to start and stuff." The words are choppy, uncomfortable, like creaking branches forced to bend by a strong wind.

"Yeah, Sasha said something about Armin when we were texting." I grab the phone from between my neck and hear to hold it in one hand as I stand to start turning off the display machines. "Are they okay?"

"Yeah, they're okay." His shaky sigh is a burst of static through the speaker. "Still sleeping when I got back from work."

"Sleeping?"

"Yeah. They, well..." He sighs again and I can hear the confused frustration in his voice. "They didn't come home with us Saturday."  
  
"Wait, what?" My hand pauses, hovering over a lit iPad resting on the display shelf.

"I- Armin was in a really bad mood Saturday night because of what happened with Mikasa," Eren starts hesitantly.

"Yeah, I know, I talked to them about it." I say slowly, making my way down the line of computers and tablets.

"I guess I didn't really, like...get _how_ bad it was." The words sound almost choked by the end, a frenzied thrash of leaves tossed haphazardly in a gust of wind.

"What do you mean?" I ask quietly. The shop is quiet, computer screens blank by now and my hand is gripping the phone to my ear.

"Fuck, I'm such an idiot." His words come out in a rush. "I was so worried about Mikasa and how I was gonna be there for both of them, like not pick sides and shit. I got caught in the middle, man, and I wasn't paying attention and I just- _fuck_ -" I can hear his teeth gritting by the end before he's cut off abruptly.

"Eren?" The voice is barely audible in the background on the other end, sleepy, confused, and a bit raspy. "E-Eren, what...?"

"Armin." Eren says in a relieved exhale. I hear walking and the creak of a bed as he presumably sits down. "Hey, kid, you really awake this time?"

Breathing.

Starting evenly, and then picking up faster and faster in a way that causes ice to drop into my stomach. I can almost feel the phantom clench of abdominal muscles and ache of lungs.

I know that feeling all too well.

The unsteady tilt begins to canter my brain, the sensation of lack of purchase, of weak limbs, of scrabbling for something strong to hold on to. Long ago echoes of bright flashes to make it go away _go away please something anything_ -

Bent branches, torn away leaves.

I've weathered enough storms of my own to know what it sounds like in someone else.

"Eren? Are they okay?" I ask into the phone but I get no reply from him.

"E-Eren...where am- o-oh God, what did-?" Armin's voice is panicked, ragged, confused. The shuffle of blankets is grainy beneath the frantic breathing.

"Armin, Armin, shhh, calm down, you're still out of it but it's gonna be okay. I'm right here, Arm. I'm right here with you. Jean, let me call you back later, okay?"

"Y-yeah, of course-" I start to reply but he's already hung up, taking the shaking, heaving gasps of Armin's breath with him just as abruptly.

The silence it leaves is heavy. I feel the ice in my gut creeping slowly outwards.

It's okay. Eren said they were fine, Eren said they were fine. I heard them. Shaken up but okay.

With Eren. Okay. Breathe, Jean.

Because no matter how much I might want to tell Marco to drive me straight to their dorm after work, to demand the story and details and push my way in, I can't. Despite the gnawing dread within me, that isn't my place.

I've only known Armin for a little over a week. And despite the small flickers of depth and pain and vulnerability we've shared, I still have no place in this and won't unless they invite me to one.

I know the way you can build yourself up and convince yourself you are strong and steady, that your roots are deep enough, your trunk thick enough, yet still feel like a fragile sapling when the next storm hits.

But I don't know Armin well enough to help. I don't know how they weather storms best. If I traipse in thinking I know how long the storm will last and how to prop them up through it, I could end up leaving them splintered and drowned.

And I am trying to grow in too much loose soil myself to lend my branches to anyone else.

But Eren's different. Eren is steady and strong.

I've seen the way his branches have bent and bowed under Mikasa's tempest but held steadfast. And he has grown with Armin, has his own roots tangled about theirs, knows how to help them weather their storms. And I need to give him room to.

So that's what I do. That's all I can do. Trust Eren to support those he loves like he always does. Trust Eren to be sturdy enough to help.

Because despite how much I want to, I sure as hell am not.

Some of us need to grow a little heartier before we can help anyone else without our own branches snapping. So that's what I do.

I finish closing down the store and get my things together, watching the tiny flashing numbers on my phone blink over to 5:00. Figuring I might as well go wait outside since it's nice, I exit, turning to lock the door behind me. But I'm pleasantly surprised when I hear the crunching roll of tires in the parking spaces past the sidewalk.

I take in a breath.

Push your roots deeper, spread your leaves further, drink up any sprinkling rain that gives more than it harms you.

Use it. Grow.

So that's what I do. That's all I can do.

Smiling to myself, I turn to him. Because like all things desperately growing, I can't help bending towards the sun.

When I slide into the car beside him, Marco turns his head to smile at me in greeting, his phone pressed against his ear. That wave of comfort, of relaxation, of _how could I have ever thought I knew what calm was before this_ washes over me.

I wonder if he realizes he doesn't need music to make people feel things.

"Yeah, I'm glad you called about it though, I'd really like to." Marco's saying into the phone, car idling in the parking spot as he drums his fingers on the steering wheel. He tilts it away from his head, putting a hand over the speaker to hiss to me. "Sorry, I'll finish this up in a sec. Don't like driving on the phone."

I just nod as a buzzing murmur comes from the other end and Marco presses it back to his ear, brow furrowing as he listens.

"Why wouldn't I need to worry about it? I have to get approved just like everyone else...Yeah. Yeah, no, I really appreciate-" I watch him worry his lip, eyes trained on the rhythmic tapping of his fingers. "Of course. So yeah, I can change the availability if you think it'll help. And add Glitch Hop. I think I'll be playing more of that if I get a spot." He pauses for a reply and then rolls his eyes. "Whatever you say, old man."

He glances over at me, an amused smile lighting his features as he mouths "Levi" and a loud string of buzzing comes through his phone, too indistinct for me to make out.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know...mhm...Really, thanks for the heads up and the help. I'll tell Erwin you said hi. Mhm. Bye."

He hangs up and tosses his phone into the cupholder before he starts backing up the car to steer it out onto the street.

"Levi called you?"

"Yeah." He replies tiredly, eyes a bit distant. "Just talking to me about Player 1 stuff. A few tips that might help me get a spot." After my conversation with Eren earlier, I'm already tuned into the frequency of "light words, heavy tone" that colors his response.

"...You okay, man?" He blinks at my words as if startled out of fog.

"O-Oh, uh... Yeah." I stare at him again and almost immediately see his resolve crumble. It seems intense, prolonged focus has a way of dragging information out of him. Duly noted. "I...I don't like getting opportunities just because I know people. It makes me uncomfortable. So when Levi gives me little a leg up or sets me up with people, I always feel a little guilty."

My face scrunches in confusion.

"Dude, you're talented as hell." His frown only inches lower. I sigh. "Look, so you know people. So what. It's not like you're using Levi to get you gigs." His eyes shoot up in alarm.

"Of course not!"

"Exactly. Just cause he gets your foot in the door, doesn't mean you don't get it the rest of the way open by yourself. Like, you're a _great_ DJ. A fucking _amazing_ DJ. I know it, Levi knows it, everyone who hears you play knows it. I think he's trying to get you out there because he knows you're something worth _being_ out there."

"Am I, though?" The reply is small when it comes.

"Yeah. You are." I say without hesitation, without doubt, as if confirming that the sun rises in the mornings.

Because he is.

Argue with me about what it means to be interesting, where I should be in my life by now, about how close a moth can get to a light before it's too close, but _never_ argue with me about the fact that Marco is worthy. Stage or no stage, music or no music, Marco is talented and special and more worthy than I will ever be. And that is not an opinion.

It is a fact as clear to me as anything I have ever known.

To my surprise he stills at my words. He doesn't respond, but it isn't a quietly dismissive silence I might have expected that greets me in reply. It's the soft, astonished considering I've noticed accumulate around him after something I've said.

I watch him swallow, hands flexing around the steering wheel, and nod.

Pulling into the parking lot of our apartment complex, we both start when a loud buzzing erupts from my pocket. I laugh shakily at our jumpiness as I dig it from my pocket, surprised to see it's a reply from Reiner to my earlier text.

 

 **From Reiner (Door Stuff):** [hey man sized up ur door today & its looking like middle of wed]

 

"What's up?" Marco asks. I run a hand through my hair.

"Reiner texted me. Door won't be fixed 'til Wednesday, I guess."

"Oh." Is all Marco says. It sounds careful and constructed. Like he's not sure what I want to hear about going back to my own place in a day and a half.

The truth of it is, I _like_ staying with Marco. Which is crazy for me. To not be in a homey little space of my own, just how I like it, with more alone time than not is a recipe for disaster and an endlessly cranky Jean.

But being around Marco is easy. Even with the building jitteriness of nicotine withdrawal from two days without something to smoke, as we make our way across the parking lot to building D, I feel like I can let out my breath. I don't feel suffocated around him. The creeping anxiety that hovers at the edges of my mind waiting for anything to snap it into action has been slowly but steadily tamed into a quietly slumbering ball by his considerate, easy nature.

And an apartment that felt so comforting, so safe alone a few days ago now seems empty and dark and much too large when I think about it without him there.

"So, two more sleepovers, huh?" I ask, flopping down on the bed to take my shoes off. "Shit, I don't wanna have to keep asking to borrow your clothes."

"It's honestly fine." He tells me, tossing his keys down onto the table before fishing out his phone and iPod to join them. "Although, I'm not sure if I _have_ enough to last 'til Wednesday." His mouth twists down into a frown, leaning on the table's edge.

"Not to mention all my smokes are up there." I sigh, sprawling fully on my back. "Getting kinda shaky."

"Well," I hear him start and the scheming tone of voice makes me tilt my head to look at him, "we could always try Option 2 again."

I prop myself up on my elbows, frowning worriedly at the adventurous smirk dawning across his lips.

"Wait. Like Dumb-College-Kid Option 2?" He shrugs and that damn grin only grows wider.

"You said you needed clothes and your cigarettes." He didn't call them "vapes." Bless his heart. "Besides, it's not like you'd stay there, right? Be a hell of a time trying to climb down tomorrow morning and then back up." I hadn't noticed the clench of my hands in the sheets beside me until I feel them loosen at those words.

I still get my two more nights.

"Y-yeah, of course. I'd probably end up breaking my leg." He snorts and strides across the room and past me and to the sliding glass door beside the bed.

"And we wouldn't want that." He says shimmying the blinds back across the pane in jerky clattering pulls of the chain on the far end. The late afternoon sun is once again beginning to dip into rich oranges and bright reds and they stream through the window in a blinding waterfall of light. "How would you be able to dance?"

I can't quite see him clearly because of the sun's glare, but I think he might have winked at me. I just cough to conceal the nervous squeak that was threatening to escape my throat instead.

Standing, I step to the other end of the pane and slide the door open, exiting out onto the balcony. Marco follows me out and we both stare up at the wooden slats of my little balcony directly above us. I shield my eyes, squinting through the inconveniently angled slant of the setting sun.

"Well this looks like a good idea." I mutter sarcastically, trying to wrap my mind around how we're going to clamber essentially seven feet vertically without dying.

"It'll be an adventure!" Marco chirps from beside me, his footsteps clunking on the wood as he strides to the railing and leans slightly to peer upwards.

"God, you sound like my friend Connie." I huff and come to join him at the railing. "So, how do you propose we do this?"

Marco flashes me that eerily innocent smile before widening his stance and bending his knees a little, bringing his hands in front of him and lacing them together, palms up.

"Do you trust me?" He asks and from this angle he's peering up at me from beneath his eyelashes. God, he's beautiful lit up by golden sun, the rich browns of his eyes illuminated into endless, shining pools.

I snort.

 "Okay, Aladdin." I scoff and roll my eyes but walk forward to put my hands on his shoulders anyway, steadying myself. Lifting one leg to place my foot on his interlocked hands, I see him snicker at my words.

"All right, so if I lift you up from here can you grab the rungs on your balcony and haul yourself up?" He asks and I peer upwards, judging the distance.

"Think so." I mutter, my stomach doing backflips at the impending weightlessness and sudden realization that I am two floors off the ground. "Anything else?"

"Does that make you Jasmine?"

"I'll let you know if it's a whole new world up there if I don't die before I get back." I grit out to try and calm my nerves, steeling myself and willing my hands to not get any more sweaty than they already are.

"All right, princess, enjoy your magic carpet ride." Marco mutters through a laugh and I try to give him an exasperated deadpan. But I'm not sure how well I actually pull it off because the majority of my brain is overwhelmed by how _close_ our faces are, how bright and illuminated he looks in the setting sun again. So close, so bright, I can see freckles I hadn't noticed before, faint enough that it took a beaming ray of sunlight to reveal their hidden presence.

I know that feeling well.

"Grab for the bottom rungs." He says. "On three, ready?"

"Y-yeah." I stutter out, trying to focus on the warmth seeping up from his shoulders. _C'mon, Jean. Clean clothes and smokes. C'mon._ Squeezing my eyes shut for a second sets the inside of my head alight with the sun's brilliance.

"All right. One."

Inhale. Exhale.

I open my eyes, watch the shift of muscles in his shoulders as he tenses to boost me upwards. His brow is furrowed in determination, braced so solidly.

"Two."

Strong, adventurous Marco―let him make you brave.

"Three!"

 

 

 

"D-do you need me to slow down?"

"Ah-! No, Marco, no, it's fine, I promise- ghk!"

"Are you sure?"

"Y-yeah, it's fine, just keep going. Almost there."

"All right, just lean your weight on me, okay? Just hold on-"

I drop from Marco's arms back onto the bed with a wince and a loud huff, followed by a relieved sigh to have weight off my right side.

"God, Jean, I'm really sorry." Marco repeats for the tenth time. "I didn't know you were gonna come down right then and I still had your clothes in one hand so I couldn't get to you-"

I shake my head to cut him off, tenderly bending my leg to pull my right foot up onto the bed, sliding the pant leg back.

"It's fine. I should have waited for you to tell me instead of just trying to hop down like that." Marco hovers nervously over me, staring down at my ankle.

 "I thought you broke your ankle for a second," he almost whispers. "Is it okay?"

I poke at the reddened skin and wince a bit.

 "Well, it hurts still but not like "broken ankle" hurt. I'll just try to keep my weight off it and it'll probably be better tomorrow."

"Are you sure?" He's still fidgeting nervously by the foot of the bed, feet kicking absently at the blanket nest we'd left strewn across the middle of the living room. His brown is knotted in worry. I laugh.

"It's not like I fell two stories or anything. Just a few extra feet I wasn't expecting when I missed the railing. Takes a lot more than a bad landing to put me out of commission." I tease, trying to will some ease back into his posture. Marco worries his bottom lip between his teeth.

"And you did get your stuff." He admits hesitantly and I nod.

"Exactly, so don't worry about it." He just shuffles his feet again. I sigh. "You're going to worry about it, aren't you?"

He _honest to God_ pouts and nods again.

I run a hand over my face to distract myself from the urge to somehow limp over to him and catch that lip between mine.

Jesus, Jean, get a grip.

I look down to the pile of blankets on the floor, to my iPod lying untouched and dark on the coffee table shoved to the side, to Marco's feet still shifting nervously.

"Compromise." I murmur and look back up at him again.

"Huh?" His eyebrows relax from their knot only to be pulled upwards in confusion.

"We'll do it your way. Compromise." I repeat, nodding to myself. "If it still hurts in the morning, I'll let you take me to, like, Redi-Care or whatever to get it looked at." His expression softens, relaxing, and my heart warms.

"Thank you." he replies.

"But," I continue just as quickly, "I get to ask a favor...if it's okay." I swallow, my fingers sliding idly over the skin of my ankle that's growing a little warm and puffy.

"What kind of favor?" He asks, voice soft. I can feel his eyes following the movement of my hand back and forth. I pause, taking in a steadying breath before speaking.

"If you're feeling up to it...would you show me your favorite song?"

The room is silent and still, but heavy with the presence that sometimes bubbles up between us, thick and living. I hear him pull in a breath.

"Jean..." He starts hesitantly.

"If you don't want to, it's okay." I tell him quickly, tilting my head up to watch him. With how much patience and sensitivity he's shown me, this is the least I can give back. "I just said my side was to _ask_ a favor. No commitment required, kay?"

His eyes flick up to meet mine. His expression twisted into astonished adoration once again, like the things I am offering him are beyond words, like I am precious and captivating. And I don't know what to do.

I would say I don't like to be the center of anything, let alone something so meaningful, could have never imagined feeling comfortable and elated by being the center of someone's universe, even for a brief moment like this.

But I don't know if I've ever felt as at home as I do at the center of his.

So when he swallows thickly and shakes his head. "No, I- it's okay." He manages before walking to the table to grab his own clunky brick of an iPod from it, I feel a goddamn prickle beginning in the corners of my eyes.

"I'm gonna get the headphone splitter so we can each listen in both ears, okay?" He says and I nod as he turns and disappears down the hallway.

He has always been the one to pull and tug my world out and open to him with his patience and quiet willingness to give me whatever comfort I desire along the way. But now I want to be the one to reach out and brush the very edges of his universe, to understand where all this beautiful light within him comes from, to understand the sadness he gives me glimpses of that lurks in the darkness between his stars.

I want to let him know that whatever it is, it only makes him shine all the brighter when I look at him.

We end up both smushed side by side into his bed, propped up against pillows layered at the head. The floor lamp is once again the only source of light in the room, illuminating a soft sphere around us.

He passes me a pair of headphones plugged into the splitter and moves to put them over his ears.

"Wait." I say and his hands still. "You said it needs a little explaining, right?"

"Yeah." Marco lowers his hands and nods, taking in a few deep breaths. "So this isn't my favorite song because it's the _best_ song or anything. It's my favorite because of what it... means to me, I guess." He pauses again, toying with the headphones in his hands. He lets out a breath before continuing. "The medication I take? It's an anti-depressant I've been taking for a while now. But there was a bit before that, in high school and the beginning of college, when I had a... really rough time."

I swallow, listening intently, feeling the weight behind those words, flickering understanding of the myriad of stretching days and dragging weeks that hovers painfully beneath reaching me.

"Failed a lot of classes, couldn't keep any friends, felt like there was no point to it all, y'know? I can't tell you how many weeks I barely left my dorm room. I cried constantly for no reason at all even though I didn't actually feel sad. Forgot what it felt like to feel anything at all, really. So I... started finding other ways to."

His words are rasping now, nearly choked. They're simple but the depths beneath them are staggering.

"I tried to do it where no one would see." He continues, expression twisted in a mixture of determination and pain when I glance sideways to him. "I guess I knew somewhere in the back of my head that some of them wouldn't ever... heal completely. Not that it mattered to me back then. All I could think about was how to make it just...  _stop_."

I bite my lip, closing my eyes tightly against the wave of agony that washes over me as his meaning solidifies.

Because I know what it feels like to be so desperate to make something go away. Behind my closed eyelids I see half remembered images from years ago. Of locked bathroom stalls, of my trembling hands disabling basement smoke detectors, of the ways I used to use both ends of a cigarette to keep me calm.

But imagining Marco―worthy, _worthy_ Marco―feeling so trapped and desperate and wrong in every way makes my chest ache so badly I feel like I can't breathe.

Without opening my eyes my hand darts out to cover his, squeezing around his warm fingers.

_I'm here. You're not alone in this._

He stills beside me and I hear a slow intake of breathe.

A long moment passes in silence before I feel the hand lifting off the headphones and his fingers slide through mine, twining together and resting in the dip where our thighs are pressed together.

I open my eyes to fix them on the crisscross of our interwoven knuckles and squeeze again.

_I'm here. I'm here._

"Eventually I got help." He continues after a moment, voice still wavering. "Started seeing a therapist and a psychiatrist. Tried to accept that it wasn't _my fault_. That it wasn't something I could help by myself. She even showed me an MRI of someone with depression, how it was all chemical, how most of the brain was just... dark." He swallows. "But it was hard when I had to carry the marks of it around with me. I felt like there was this giant black splotch over me. Like even after I got help, was doing better, met Levi and found my passion and a road forward... there was still this stain on me reminding me that my default state was always just darkness."

I'm sure I must be crushing his hand by now but he doesn't say anything.

Every thought I've had about how beautiful and bright he looks to me is suddenly clambering to the surface, aching to pour from my lips.

How could he possibly think someone could look at him and see anything but light?

"But this song..." His free hand moves to his iPod again, bringing it whirring to life with a soft click. "This song helped me get through that."

He swallows, turning to me, and I can see the sheen of wetness that precedes tears filming over his eyes, glinting in the low light of the lamp beside him.

"I warn you now, there's a part of it in the middle you won't like. And that's the point." He tells me, pulling his hand away briefly to fit his pair of headphones over his ears and I do the same. "But just- let it talk to you, okay?" The words are muffled through the headphones as his fingers slip back into mine. "Just listen like you always do."

I don't know what I expect when he finally hits play, but it's definitely not this.

Violin. Soothing and lingering with careful, sparse dots of piano chords that begin to spill out into individual notes plinking like sparks of light amidst the flow of the strings. Melancholy peace settles over me like the exhalation of air.

It is calmness with distant echoes of past sadness amidst its strong, contented core. I simply sit still, letting it speak to me, letting all its hidden ribbons and harmonies unfurl against the back of my eyelids. A shimmering, rhythmic strand begins to thread up through the rest, adding a direction to the lulling, softly floating web of previous sounds.

And then, a solid, quiet beat takes over as the rest fades to the background and mist appears, hissing quietly among it all. I open my eyes at the shift, flicking my gaze to Marco who has his own eyes closed, head tilted back and resting against the wall.

The mist seems to be sucked, funneled into a point as a voice, soft but earnest like Marco's eyes when he looks at me sometimes, begins to speak above it.

His lips form around the words as if it is second nature, as if he knows them so well they cease to be individual words and more an experience of sound and rhythm and feeling.

 

_I cried, for I didn't think it could be true._

_That you and I might have always known one another._

 

The rhythm beneath them grows in strength and structure and the words seem to fizz at the edges, as if some force is tugging at their fringes, drawing them away grain by grain in a wispy stream.

 

_And that we could not only evoke, but conjure a place of our own._

_That everywhere that has ever existed_

_Is all on the surface of our dreams._

 

The notes beneath the words are being pulled up and up into high pinging spikes until they all cut out, leaving nothing but wispy, pleading words that begin to crumble into static.

 

 _Now please...hear what I hear_.

 

Clunking, ugly, grating sound crashes into my ears then. It is a loping, disjointed rhythm that feels too heavy, too unnatural, like clothes that don't fit right, like long sleeves in summer, like desperate _this is what I should be this is what I should be_ , like sobbing, pleading _do I sound right yet do I sound right yet?_

It stutters and screeches along, full of rusted, jagged spikes that feel like anything but home. They jam into my ears, occasionally punctuated by scraping that sounds like agonized gasps and hopeless, broken screams. It continues on and on in different patterns with different sounds, all just as _off_ , just as _wrong_ , but laced with glimpses of notes that sound next to normal until you could almost convince yourself it is somewhat bearable.

It sounds like years of hiding in bathrooms, hugging your trembling chest, trying to convince yourself that that ugly sound you constantly hear isn't really there, that you need to just _why can't you just get over it_ , grit your teeth and bear it and pray eventually it will begin to sound right to you―

But then, the gasping wisp is being drawn back into a singular silence and the voice returns, clear and soft.

 

 _Let me explain_.

 

I hadn't noticed the crushing grip around my hand until it now lessens in the returning quiet. I look over to find his eyes still shut but tears now streaming down his cheeks. They glitter in the soft lamplight.

He looks so achingly beautiful beside me now. Open.

I feel as if I am teetering before some important threshold. It is Saturday night once more and Marco is standing back from his door with the light inside spilling out to me with his soft voice saying,  _"Come on in."_

 

_This ugliness..._

 

A sharp spike of rusted metal pierces after the word and then disappears just as abruptly.

 

_This cruelty..._

 

Another, then it is gone.

 

_This repulsiveness..._

Once more.

_It will all die out._

 

He opens his eyes then and turns his head to me, hair rumpling comically with the shift but the way his eyes shine as they meet mine, the way more tears break loose as he forms the next words without looking away from me, makes my heart ache in ways I can't begin to untangle.

 

 _And now, I cry for all that is beautiful_.

 

I don't think I've ever felt so close to another person in my entire life.

And the music pours in again in that harmonic, soft wave for a lulling moment. I watch his face, his eyes, his ever-so-slightly trembling lips as a beat once again threads up through it.

This time, the music stutters in a way that fits, that allows space for notes with strong grating tones to slide through while keeping the melody of the previous flowing sounds present, even though they carry echoes of that jarring patch. But it, too, cuts out just as abruptly.

 

 _Let me explain_.

 

Gorgeous, delicate bubbles of high piano blink to life like a string of fairy lights. Harsh accents poke through it in rhythm at the end of musical lines, growing but still harmonious and adding as it goes.

There is a hanging moment of silence before it bursts into a pulsing, bright rhythm that contains _everything_.

The harmony, the harshness, the melody, and the grating. They all seem twine about each other, fading in and out in alternating undulations as if bobbing together on waves.

And it is fantastic. So _goddamn_ spectacular because the grating intensity gives the delicate beauty a strength it didn't have before. They fade into one another until they are beautiful and strong as one and I feel like I can't breathe because his eyes are on me and I _understand._

His hand is shaking in mine and I notice the occasional jerk of his chest as his breath hitches.

I feel my jaw clench and my brow furrow against tears of my own threatening to form and begin to nod frantically at him, wordless but desperate to let him know what he has shown me.

Because this door he has opened for me to walk through goes two ways.

I find I am trembling myself at the realization that he makes me want to be brave enough open the locked doors inside of me as well. The ones I desperately skitter past and skirt around. He makes me believe like I do the sun will rise in the mornings in his idea that sharing our weaknesses can help them become a strength.

He makes me nearly desperate to show him that maybe we all carry ill-fitting, ugly things inside us that can convince us there is nothing but shadows where we live.

But with the way he's looking at me now, with this beautiful melody of blended brightness and jagged edges that still wraps around us and runs a line between the center of our chests, I think again about the fact that a doorway can be walked through both ways.

Because his hand is extending as if in slow motion to rest _so_ lightly on my cheek it's as if I am some delicate, precious thing he is scared to touch lest I disappear before him. As if he is drawn to me, warmed by me, like I have given him something fundamental and necessary.

His hand on my cheek feels like coming home and I watch the flickers behind his eyes as I move my head towards him ever so slightly, ever so slowly, watch an answer blossoming in those beautiful, luminous pools that still shine with tears.

When our lips meet unevenly because of the smile stretching his, I realize that maybe I'm not the only one who looks out from the swimming shadows within me and sees nothing but light shining back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [fanfic/podfic blog](http://zoe-bug.tumblr.com/) | [personal](http://xiexiecaptain.tumblr.com/) | [twitter](https://twitter.com/xiexiecaptain)
> 
> I love hearing from people about the fic! So you're more than welcome (encouraged, really) to stop by any place I lurk about and talk at me :D
> 
> Also, [CS's inspiration tag](http://zoe-bug.tumblr.com/tagged/cs-inspiration) if anyone's interested.


	9. And A Little Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All I want to think about is Marco being happy and Marco feeling good and Marco getting everything he deserves.
> 
> Which is the whole goddamn world.
> 
> And I don’t want to think about how much less than that I have to offer him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LONG AUTHOR NOTES, I APOLOGIZE!!  
>   
> [WARNINGS FOR THIS CHAPTER: Self harm scars, self-destructive thought patterns, & sexual content]  
>   
> Ohhh my lord I am so sorry about the lateness. Few things came up, not to mention this ended up a hella long monster chapter to the tune of nearly 18k words.
> 
> Thanks to all the peeps on twitter that put up with like a week and a half straight of me crying while writing this and telling me things would be all right. I wouldn't have gotten this far without you.
> 
> [I also wrote a short side drabble for CS from Marco's POV titled "Prism"](http://zoe-bug.tumblr.com/post/110762761035/prism-a-cutting-shapes-extra-marcos-pov)
> 
> There has also been some amazing fanart that had me screaming for like days on end:  
> -[Sasha hooping](http://rhianneman.tumblr.com/post/109419391435/it-is-done-had-a-sick-day-from-uni-so-i-buzzed) by [rhrianneman](http://rhianneman.tumblr.com/)  
> -[Marco performing at Player 1](http://thcrsthry.tumblr.com/post/109760488524/that-you-and-i-might-have-always-known-one-another) by [thcrsthry](http://thcrsthry.tumblr.com/)  
> -[End of Ch 8 Jean & Marco](http://daijuuyon.tumblr.com/post/109271405013/i-cried-for-i-didnt-think-it-could-be-true-that) by [daijuuyon](http://daijuuyon.tumblr.com/)  
>   
> SONG LIST:  
> 1\. [Snowblind - Au5 ft. Tasha Baxter](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NkWadKHAnPI)  
> 2\. [Stay the Night [(KDrew Remix)] - Zedd ft. Hayley Williams](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MVjbst58Nao)  
> 3\. [Heroes (we could be) - Alesso ft. Tove Lo](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yyK4WAQBZio)  
> 4\. [Heroes (we could be) [(Branchez Remix) ] - Alesso ft. Tove Lo](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bu4dvZVGWlw)  
>   
> The official CS playlists: [Part 1: chapters 1-8](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLlxYQYtBBJbHVyqYXqqGhwrAunwAootN-) & [Part 2: chapters 9 & on](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLlxYQYtBBJbHEYRd-LwgZvgruYkQuHwsT)  
>   
> Without further ado, chapter 9!

I'm kissing Marco and he is smiling into my lips and the hand on my cheek is sliding to cup the back of my head and I am... okay.

_Warm. Soft. Safe._

_Good. Okay._

I feel the words pulsing through me like a heartbeat, hot and strong.

_Everything's okay._

And that is my electric current, my orchestral swell of soundtrack, my fireworks. That things are, for this tiny moment with my breath catching in my chest at the slight parting of his lips, okay.

My hand drifts up to press against the side of his head but my fingers knock the headphones there, quiet now that the song has faded out. He lets out a quiet, breathless laugh through his nose as he leans back just enough to tug the headphones from his ears. I quickly yank mine off as well and he tosses them and iPod gently to the blanket pile on the floor.

"Thank you," he whispers, eyes closed, voice breaking, before leaning back to kiss me again. “Thank you, thank you.” The tips of his eyelashes are cold and wet when they feather across my cheeks and I don’t know what he has to thank _me_ for in the wake of all he’s giving me.

The bed creaks mutely with his weight as he angles himself toward me more, our breaths loud in the sudden silence. His lips are parted, moving against mine again in a slow, easy rhythm and I tilt my head, opening mine to meet his movements.

His sigh at the motion makes my head spin.

His thumb is stroking gently along the nape of my neck, soothing and warm, his other hand still twined with mine, squeezing gently. I bring my hand up to slide along his broad chest. I can feel it rise and fall with his breathing, the faint thud of his heart beneath my fingertips and, God, this is the most okay I've felt in years.

It feels so right, so _good_ , my head reeling, full of light and warmth, every pulse of blood seeming to sing a chorus of _yes yes yes_ through my veins.

I run my thumb back and forth over the knuckles laced with mine, feeling his sighs begin in his chest before they ever fan out across my cheeks.

This is so different from the first time I'd felt his lips on my skin. It isn't all heat and low bass and urgency. This... this is solidity. This is reaching through the darkness and finding something to hold on to. This is finding someone reaching back for you.

This Marco and me… but I don't know what I've done to earn the "and me" part. And through the haze of warm afternoon sun filling my mind, that thought starts a cold prickle seeping through its recesses.

I'm jerked from my thoughts, letting out a startled, abortive grunt when Marco's leg bumps my injured ankle, sending a thrill of pain shooting through me.

I grimace, jerking back and hissing through clenched teeth. Opening my eyes, I find his gaze wide yet still slightly dazed as he stares at me. I can still see the fading tear tracks on his cheeks, breath coming in little puffs between his parted lips.

"You okay?" He asks, concerned, and the breathlessness in his voice makes me swallow.

Am I okay, he asks. Am I _okay_? The buzzing between my ears is quieter and Marco is smiling at me like I am shining and beautiful with his hand still warm on the back of my neck and this is so much better than okay.

I let out a shaky laugh and squeeze his hand again, the stupidest giddy expression probably plastered across my face. But I move my hand from his chest, wiping the lingering dampness from the speckles spread beautifully over his cheeks.

"O-oh, um, yeah. Just my ankle. I'm spectacular, actually," I reply, choked and grimace at the rasp to my words.

"Sorry about that," he laughs lightly, closing his eyes and leaning his forehead against mine.

"D-don't worry about it," I mutter.

"Look, I... I like you, Jean. Really, _really_ like you." The words dissipate into another breathy laugh. "If that wasn't already blatantly obvious, I mean."

And at that it suddenly feels like there's something stuck in my throat.

Words, maybe, that I'm not ready to say. Emotions, maybe, that I'm not ready to handle. There could be a live frog squirming against my esophagus right now for all I know. Would explain why I feel like my lungs won't fully inflate.

"I-" I croak out one syllable but my voice gives out before I can get any further so I close my mouth.

The inside of my head is skittering off in so many possible directions of replies I can't settle on one long enough to form it into something cohesive. They crash into each other, strings of words thrown into the air by the collisions of my damned short circuitry.

 _Me too_.

 _God, God,_ _me too._

 _-so beautiful_...

 _...never want to stop touching you_.

_Precious- Wonderful-_

_I never thought-_

_I never thought-_

_I n-never...thought..._

"Shhh." Marco's voice is soft as he leans back to look me in the eye, still close enough that I can feel the words on my skin. "Hey, you don't have to say anything right now. I can tell this," he breaks into a patient smile mid-sentence, "is a lot for you. I've figured out that sometimes you need time for things like this. It's okay. I can wait."

The lump only grows larger.

_I never thought...  
_

_I never thought someone would-_

"Marco, I-" My voice is a pathetic, strangled thing.

"Shhh," Marco shushes again and, _God_ , the tears from earlier are prickling in the corners of my eyes again. His hand on my cheek is soothing, grounding, reassuring and I press my eyes closed tightly. I can't stand how my vision is threatening to blur and smear the way his expression is softening into such patient adoration when he looks at me. "You're _worth it_ , okay?"

The floor has dropped out from under me and all at once I can't breathe.

There is a roaring, a tidal wave inside me of churning black water that crashes over my mind at the words...in his voice...about me…

The reality, the spinning kaleidoscope of what those words and all his others _mean_ crashes onto, crushes me inward like the black void of space.

No. No, no, no. _No, no_.

I c-can’t... I _can’t_ -

I'm not even aware that I've tipped forward and am now sobbing against his chest until I feel the hard press of his sternum against my cheek, hear my gasping breaths fill the air as if they are coming from someone else. The fingers of my free hand slide with me to clutch at the fabric of his shirt as if for dear life.

"G-God, 'm sorry, I'm so sorry, no, no, sorry, 'm sorry..." I'm half-gasping, half-sobbing into his chest, teeth gritted again the words that are suddenly tearing themselves from my lips of their own volition.

"Jean- Jean, what-?" Marco splutters from above me, hand coming seemingly unconsciously to run over my back, wide and warm. I might be crushing the hand I'm still holding but I can't get mine to stop shaking any other way.

"I'm sorry... 'm sorry, you- you-"

How can I explain to him what's now squeezing my heart like a vice, what's making my hands shake and my mind spiral? That he is mistaken. So very sorely mistaken.

That I am not, at all, in _any_ way, worth it.

"Hey, hey, there's nothing you need to be sorry for. It's okay."

That thick blackness is stirring at the core of me. Old. Familiar.

_I never thought someone would-_

"Jean, would you look at me for a second?" I shake my head, my breath still coming in shallow, embarrassing gasps. "Ok, all right, it's all right." His hand slides up my back and into my hair, threading through it softly. The wave of guilt that comes with that small, comforting motion sends another round of hot tears to soak into the fabric of his shirt.

I can't remember the last time someone saw me cry.

He's quiet for a long moment, the scratch of his fingers through my hair repetitive and soothing. And because I am weak, I let him. Let him treat me like I am worthy of his affection and his comforting.

I feel the blackness in my chest ache painfully.

"Y'know... there was this lake nearby the house I grew up in," he starts softly. I remain quiet, confused as to the sudden turn of the conversation. But I let him talk. "My sisters and I would go play there all the time. It wasn't big―more of a pond, actually. Pretty murky with algae all over the place, kinda icky, frog-central. But we were little kids and it was water, y'know?" He laughs quietly to himself, his hands still soft in my hair, and I turn my face so it's now pressed against his shoulder.

"Anyway," he continues. I can feel his voice vibrating through his chest. "One night my older sister, Michaela, she dared me and my other sister, Maura, to sneak out to the pond at night, stay there for half an hour, and come back without getting caught. Dumb, yeah? Always tried to get us in trouble." A smile tugs at the corners of my lips but the laugh that could have been is still stuck somewhere around my ribcage. Marco seems content to just let me listen. "But we did it anyway."

Of course. Seems Marco has always been brave.

"We were lucky the moon was full or else we probably would have broken our ankles or something- ah- um, ha, no offense. But by the time we got to the pond it was right overhead. Big and really, really bright. And we had half an hour to kill, so we just sat down by the pond and talked."

I'm really starting to wonder where this story is going, how anything he can say could make this heavy lead weight lift from me.

"Talked about the moon for a while. How bright and beautiful it was that night. But I looked out across the pond and wrinkled my nose and told Maura that it’s reflection in the pond actually looked kinda gross. Y'know, with the way the frogs hopping around would chop up the reflection into bits or the algae would block out part of it or something. ‘nd Maura just nodded at me and I watched her look up at the moon, then back down at the water, back and forth, before she asked: " _Do you think if you were the moon and you looked down from the sky and this was what you saw, you would just believe that's what you look like_?""

He sounds nearly choked now, his chest rising and falling faster under my cheek.

"And I said, " _I don't know, Maura, I'm not the moon_." And she was quiet for a minute before she looked up at the sky again and said..." He pauses to swallow, his voice wavering, "She said, " _I think everyone's the moon, Marco._ ""

I feel like I can’t breathe.

And when he continues, I can hear the rueful smile beneath his words. "For the record, I think Maura was right. Some people's ponds just do a better job of helping them realize it is all."

I'm biting my lip so hard I wouldn't be surprised if there was blood by now and my hand is shaking where it grips his shirt still.

His words make me think about other things―about doorways, about flickering lights, about branches of trees and I close my eyes to the feeling of one of his hands in my mine and the other in my hair and I breathe.

Inhale. Exhale.

"And I think that's something we both need to work on remembering, huh?"

Inhale. Exhale. Nod into Marco's soaked shirt.

Because when I hear it in his voice, so soft, so earnest―that specific way he says _we_ like it’s always been, like we’ve never really ever been alone in this -  I can let those soothing hands and strong arms around me push back the crushing darkness that laps at the edges of me and give me room to breathe.

Because that's what Marco does.

He gives and gives and gives and somehow makes things seem okay.

And with my face buried in his shirt and his hands buried in my hair, I am selfish enough to convince myself that I can take and take and take and it still will be.

 

 

 

It is dark in my dream that night.

I am on the edge of some vast, cavernous pit. Vertigo is shooting down my spine in ribbons that make my head spin.

High above the endless ravine is the distant, warm glow of a tiny light bulb, hanging bare in the darkness. I reach for it with hands numb from cold, mesmerized, feeling tears prickling unbidden against corners of my eyes.

But with the step I take forward only half my foot finds purchase, my toes curling into empty space.

I fling my hand forward, out, sideways―instinctually trying to grasp something to steady myself because I am going to fall, I am going to _fall_ -

“ _Jean?_ ”

The voice echoes, muffled as if through water but the solidity and warmth I feel against my shaking, grasping hand is as real as my own heart pounding in my ears.

“ _Jean, what’s wrong?_ ”

“The light-” I start, panting so quickly the words are chopped into fragments. I hear rocks clattering into the abyss below but I can’t tear my eyes away from the light to watch them fall. “I can’t- I can’t reach the light. It’s too high…”

The warmth against my hand is now pressed against my back, the tickle of hair against my skin, smooth lips against my neck.

“ _Why do you want that light so much?_ ” the voice whispers in a warm breath across my skin.

“It’s what I do.” I choke back, my hand still reaching upwards into the darkness toward the glow that fizzes through the pricking tears beginning to form. “I’m just a… I’ll always be...”

“ _A moth?_ ” The reply is a soft laugh against my ear. How did…? “ _Silly thing. I highly doubt that. But even if you are, why are you so scared? Go on._ ”

The fingers of my outstretched hand are trembling as I bring my other foot slowly past the edge, hovering before I shift my weight forward.

A hand is in my other one, twining, squeezing, and I clutch it as I sway, teetering on the edge.

“ _Don’t be scared,_ ” the voice sighs, somehow finding me through the terror roaring in my ears. “ _Don’t be scared, little moth…_ ”

I am going to fall, I am _going to fall_ -

“ _After all, you’ve got wings._ ”

 

 

 

My eyes snap open.

My chest is heaving, one hand frantically clutching at the bedsheets, the other-

“Jean! Jean, hey, hey it was just a nightmare. Jean, you’re _safe._ ”

Marco’s eyes are luminous in the darkness, wide, worried. The faint moonlight filtering in between the blinds glints off them brightly. He’s sitting up from his nest of blankets, clutching a hand I’d apparently flung over the edge of the bed.

The soothing, repetitive back and forth of his thumb over my knuckles slowly fades into my awareness.

“That’s it, just breathe, okay?” I nod at his words, swallowing and trying to heave in deep breaths.

“I was- I was going to-”

“Shh, hey, it was just a dream. You’re okay now.” Soft, reassuring, absolute.

 _Okay_.

My heart seems to consider his words, the tenderness of his eyes, the soothing motion of his fingers... and relents, eventually slowing back to an even _thu-thump... thu-thump_ against my ribs. I give a last, steadying exhale.

“Thanks,” I mutter. He gives me a half smile in return, squeezing my fingers one last time before moving to retract his arm. But my hand has clamped down around it in a vice-grip before I even realizing I’m choking out a “N-no, wait-”

He blinks up at me, almost owlish in his surprise.

“What’s wrong?” He asks.

_I’m weak._

_I’m so, so weak and I never thought someone would-_

“ _Don’t be scared_ …”

“Just-” I suck in a sharp breath that sounds embarrassingly close to a sob. “Just a little longer. Please?”

He exhales, his eyes softening with things I understand but don’t let myself, _can't_ let myself put to words because I never.... I never thought...

“Of course.”

 

 

 

"You really didn't have to take the day off work just to drive me to RediCare," I tell Marco for the eight time, tapping the pen in my hand idly against the clipboard balanced on my lap. "It's probably just twisted is all."

The waiting room is relatively quiet, being mid-morning on a Tuesday. Besides Marco drumming his fingers on the armrest of his chair and me sulkily filling out forms, there aren't many other people here.

An old man sniffles loudly every so often, methodically adding to the pile of used tissues on the table beside him. A middle aged woman runs her hands fretfully through the matted blonde hair of a flushed boy sitting on her lap. Two college girls - judging by the logos on their sweatshirts - sit near the door, one pale with arms crossed over her stomach and bent seemingly preemptively toward the nearest trash can.

On the clunky TV precariously fixed on the wall above the reception desk, the woman points to an animated weather map behind her and informs us it’s supposed to rain later this week.

"We compromised, remember?" Marco quips in reply, voice nearly sing-song. He crosses his arms over his chest and the Plether of the chair seat squeaks with the movement. "Songs for medical care. No take backs."

I sigh. As if I could ever forget that.

As if I could ever forget the moment of being enveloped in him and that song and all the pieces of him that tore him up inside that I understood like he was holding up a mirror.

"I'm just saying," I grouse after letting out an amused huff through my nose. "Not that big of a deal."

Marco just smiles without looking over at me, extracting a hand to wave dismissively. I level him with a side glare and I think I see his smile widen.

“You smoking like a chimney on the way here says otherwise,” he points out. I roll my eyes.

“Or it says I’ve been nicotine deprived for two days,” I grump.

I was just happy Marco’d told me he didn’t have a problem with me smoking in his car since my little eCigs just made it smell like a smoothie shop instead of cigarette smoke.

"You still almost gave me a heart attack this morning with the way you went down like that.” He interjects, trying from a different angle.

“Okay, I admit,” I relent, readjusting my leg propped up on a chair Marco had hauled in front of me, “falling to the floor swearing while trying to get out of bed isn’t my ideal way to start a morning."

Waking up with one hand dangling off the edge of the bed, still laced in the one reaching up to me from the floor from how we'd fallen asleep, however...

The loud beep startles us both and I look over to see Marco leaning back to fish his phone out of his right pocket. He swipes the screen and taps it a few times before his entire body seems to go rigid. His eyes are glued to the screen, now huge with shock.

"H-hey," I start, shifting so I can turn to him slightly. "You okay?"

In almost a jerk, his thumb hits the button on the side and the screen goes dark once more, his head coming up just as quickly.

"W-what?!" he almost squeaks, head swinging quickly in my direction, eyes still wide. His fingers are white around the dark phone in his lap. "Oh- uh, y-yeah, totally fine."

I narrow my eyes at him, but at that moment, the door beside the reception window opens with a muted squeak. A mousey nurse with a strawberry-blonde bob looks out to the waiting room of heads that all comically swivel in her direction in unison before glancing down at the clipboard in her hand.

"Kirschtein... Jeen?"

"Uh, Jean," I correct sheepishly, bracing my hands on the armrests of the chair to haul me up. “That’s me.” Marco, who seems to have snapped back to normal jumps up to help me out of the chair. He drapes my arm around his shoulders, one of his around my waist, and I lean my weight on him in order to hobble toward the nurse.

I see her eyes darting between me and Marco and my foot gingerly lifted above the floor.

“Oh, we have crutches I can get for you,” she says, already turning back, the door swinging shut once more.

“Um, okay.”

Marco snorts good-naturedly, just standing, seemingly content to let me lean my weight onto his strong shoulders. He’s warm beside me, the heat of his skin I can feel through his shirt a comforting sensation, grounding. His hand around my waist is light but solid on my hip, as if he is holding me together between his side and that hand so I won’t dissipate into pieces.

His cheek is close to mine in this position that the remains of his bedhead fanning out around the swirl of his cowlick stick out almost far enough to tickle the skin of my ear. He smells... warm. Like warm blankets with that softness they only gain after years of usage.

The door opens again and the nurse reappears carrying a set of grey crutches in one hand. She strides across the room to us and hands them to me.

“Thank you,” I say.

“I’ll wait out here, okay?” Marco says, his breath soft on my cheek and I nod in response as he helps me get situated on the crutches.

“All right, come on back,” the nurse says, holding the door open for me and I hobble my way past with a series of clacks and a half glance back at Marco who is returning to his seat against one wall.

As the door swings shut, I see his face fall into a worried frown, once again lit by the harsh white glow his phone screen.

“Follow me, we’re down at the end here,” the nurse says from a ways down the hall, having stopped and turned to find I wasn’t following.

“O-oh, sorry,” I mutter and move to hobble down the hallway after her.

“My name’s Petra. I’ll be the one taking a look at you today.” She smiles prettily at me and holds open the door to a small exam room near the end of the hallway. “Unless something really serious comes up, in which case we’ll have to call in one of the hotshots.”

I swallow thickly at the thought.

She chuckles at my expression and she helps me up onto the examination table before wheeling her little rolling chair with the laptop and tray of instruments toward me.

“So, the ankle why you’re here?” she asks, eyes flicking from the laptop screen to my leg, then back as she type something in.

“Mhm. I don’t think it's that bad, to be honest.” Glancing up at me, she surveys my face before a small smile crosses her lips and she returns to her typing.

“Boyfriend dragged you here, huh?”

I nearly choke.

The blaring, tinny sound of my phone going off saves me a response, however, and I jerk upwards so quickly I nearly smack my bum ankle on the ledge.

“S-sorry, sorry, just-” I splutter, rummaging in my pocket for my phone and quickly swiping the Call Reject without even seeing the name or number. I hastily set it to silent with shaking hands before shoving it back into my pocket. “Sorry about that.”

“It’s no big deal,” Petra replies. "You don't need to apologize." She studies me, considering, her eyes narrowing the slightest bit as I feel her gaze rove over my face. I stiffen and glance away. After another stretching moment, she rolls closer to me swinging the attached mini-table with the laptop out of the way. “All right. Let’s see going on here.”

She checks my temperature, blood pressure, eyes, ears, and throat before typing it all into the computer. After that, she returns to me to roll up the leg of my pajama pants past my knee. I sit in silence as she pokes and prods, examining the skin which is still just as red and puffy as last night around my ankle. Along with a few new bruises blossoming there brightly.

Gingerly, she lifts my foot, flexing it to and fro ever so slightly and I wince when she tilts my joint a little too far.

"That twinge?" she asks. I nod. She presses down on my muscle a bit further up. “How about there?” No jolt of pain. I shake my head. She repeats the other motion and I grit my teeth. "Mmm," she hums to herself, nodding and setting my leg back down on the table.

She rolls backwards a bit and swings the laptop back around in front of her.

"Is it bad?" I ask, chewing my lip.

The realization that if it's anything severe it means no dancing, no clubbing, no Player 1 crashes over me.

My heart starts to sink in my chest.

"Not bad at all." She taps on the keyboard. "Nothing's broken or torn. Just a sprained ankle. Just gonna have you ice it for the next 48 hours, on and off. I'll give you a sheet with specifics. Keep your weight off it as much as possible and once the swelling goes down you should be right as rain in a few days."

"Just... a few days?" A weight lifts from my shoulders.

Glancing up from her computer screen to me, her lips twitch in an amused half-smile.

"You were expecting bad news?"

I just shrug in response. She laughs a little and continues typing.

"Jean, I see people come in here with all sorts of things every day. Usually little things like your ankle, since that's what we do here. But, listen, one time this guy came in with a gunshot wound to the stomach. Nearly bled out by the time we got him over to the ER."

"Why would you go to RediCare if you got shot?" I ask.

"Apparently it “ _wasn’t that bad.”_ ” Her fingers make air quotes around the words. “Talk about bandaid-over-the-bullethole trope.”

“For real?” I scoff. She nods, rolling her eyes.

“But look, that's what I'm saying.” The printer whirrs softly on the counter behind her and she wheels to grab the discharge sheets off them along with my crutches leaning against the wall. “You got the opposite problem going on. If you're going to RediCare with an injured ankle, don't expect to get your leg amputated or anything. You don’t always have to come at things expecting the worst."

"Thanks," I mutter as I take the papers and crutches from her and start to wobbly haul myself to my feet. She smiles opens the door for me as I clatter my way past back out into the hall.

“No problem.” She leads me to the check-out desk just behind the door that opens back into the waiting room.

She hands a discharge sheet to the receptionist, glances at me, then turns back and murmurs something under her breath to the lady that I don’t catch.

“All right. You should be all set to check out. Take care of yourself, Jean,” Petra adds before turning leave.

After I finish my paperwork and pay for my visit, I make to lean the crutches against the wall, steeling myself to hop awkwardly out into the waiting room on one foot. But the lady behind the checkout desk pops her gum and informs me in a monotone voice that I can take them with me.

At my startled expression she just rolls her eyes, sighing, and glances back down the hallway of exam rooms in the direction Petra had gone.

I mutter a sheepish thank you and don't question it, fitting them back under my arms.

When I clumsily clatter back into the waiting room, my eyes scan once, twice, three times across the space, each time finding the same result: No Marco.

My blood runs to ice.

Twisting around, I shoot a half terrified, half questioning look to the woman behind the window still boredly chewing her gum who slowly raises her eyebrows at me. She frowns, then jerks her chin towards the large windows beside the doors.

I follow her indication and, sure enough, Marco is pacing back and forth on the sidewalk just outside the clinic, phone pressed to his ear. I see his frown, his bottom lip caught between his teeth before it’s released as he starts to talk fervently. I can’t hear his words, can only see the sharp gestures he makes with his free hand before bringing it up to run through his hair in distress.

The tightness in his shoulders, the twitching in his fingers, the fierce set of his jaw―they serve a sharp contrast to the image of the open, vulnerable brightness of his eyes and his hand in mine from last night that flickers in the back of my mind.

But then he pauses, mid-step, turning to pace back the way he’d come. His mouth is open in mid-speech when he sees me staring through the glass. The rigid stone of his posture and harsh steel of his eyes seem to deflate slightly when he spots me, leaning on my crutches on the other side of the glass.

He nods at me, raising a hand with his index finger raised and mouths something I assume means he’ll be in in a second before turning his back to me, phone crushed to the side of his face.

I blink, watching his shoulders for another long moment, the way they lower but don’t lose any of their straightness or strength, before moving with a awkwardly to a chair beside the door.

I’ve barely had time to balance my crutches on the armrests before Marco strides back inside, hair still sticking up on end from his hands carding through it.

“Sorry about that, Jean,” he almost wheezes, sounding winded.

“Are you okay?” I ask. Marco just nods absently, holding his hand out to help me back to my feet.

“Yeah, yeah. No problem. Was it bad? We should get you back home so you can rest.”

I frown even as I take the crutches from him and situate them under my arms.

“I can still go into work for the rest of the day, it’s just sprained so-”

Marco cuts me off with a grin that doesn't seem to reach his eyes.

“Only sprained? That’s great news. You’ll be good as new by the weekend.” His expression grows more mischievous as he continues. “Besides, you called in already, didn’t you? Would be a waste to not take advantage of such a _beautiful_ day when you have an excuse not to be at work.”

I squint.

His smirk is infuriating as he twirls his keyring nonchalantly around his index finger.

“Life moves pretty fast! If you don’t-”

“If that’s a Ferris Bueller reference you’re about to make…” I warn jokingly.

Marco just gives me a half-hearted smile and holds the door open for me as I limp my way through.

 

 

 

The car ride back grows increasingly more suffocating as we go.

Despite the easy confidence that had returned to Marco after coming inside, there’s still a stiffness to the set of his jaw. And that beautiful light behind his eyes still has cold harshness licking about its edges.

I see it, too, in the way his fingers grip the steering wheel, flexing and unflexing around it periodically, knuckles too bloodless to match the nonchalance of his periodic, lighthearted comments.

“Mhm,” He comments, leaning forward to gaze up at the sky through the windshield with bubbliness edging on forced, “Nice, clear day, huh?”

The thing curled and nestled in my ribcage stirs like a waking animal, eyelids cracking open at the slightest hint of approaching danger. I try to breathe evenly against the way I can almost feel its claws scraping against my lungs as it stretches, try to swallow against its yawn around my esophagus.

I try to remember his chest against my cheek, remember his fingers in mine. I try to remember the way lights flicker and branches break and reflections do not always show the truth of the world around us.

I try to remember the way Marco’s voice sounded around the words “ _You’re worth it.”_

And with everything I have in me, with all the strength his patience and earnestness and honesty has given me, I try so _goddamn_ hard to believe it.

He falls silent after a while when he realizes I’m not trying to keep up the appearance of easy contentment like him and for the rest of the ride I watch him quietly worry at his bottom lip.

He doesn’t speak again until we’re back inside his apartment, wordlessly having helped me up the flights of stairs with my arm slung around his neck, each of us awkwardly carrying one crutch.

There’s no intimacy in the contact now, no internal sigh of contentment that touching Marco had given me earlier today in the waiting room or last night with my fingers laced with his over the edge of the bed.

The barest hint of nails pressing into my waist through the fabric of my t-shirt and the way his eyes look forward with conviction instead of sideways with warmth seems now almost a frantic clutching.

This is not a touch of reassurance, of connection, of _hey, hey, I’m here now_. These fingers now hold tendrils of desperation as they bite their way into my hip. Of protectiveness. Of teeth bared against some threatening advance.

And I’ve seen Marco as a predator before. The way he looked down onto the dance floor with eyes as sharp as cut glass and movements as easy as a prowling cat, all confidence and the thrill of a challenge.

And while this Marco beside me has the same fierceness, the same roiling power, it is now that of tensed shoulders and a warning growl as it backs protectively against something just behind.

As we finally make it inside and I take the other crutch from Marco to cross to the bed with a huff of relief, I realize that that’s exactly what this is.

This is Marco on the defensive. This is Marco standing his ground.

This is Marco with his armor up and his warpaint on.

“Hey, so...” The tense silence between us breaks when Marco speaks from the table beside the fridge, a voice smaller than he seemed to intend by the way his lips press into a thin line after the word comes out. “I, uh, I mean, would you be okay out here for a little bit?” He turns to grab an ice pack out of the back of the freezer before he continues. “I think I might run and get some groceries while I have time off. Since I’m not exactly feeling pancakes for dinner tonight.”

I try to mask the way my heart starts to fill with ice by sitting heavily down on the bed.

“O-oh, yeah, go right ahead,” I rasp as he crosses the living room to hand the ice pack to me, taking my crutches from my hands to lean them against wall beside me without comment.

“I’ll keep my phone on me so if you need anything, text me, yeah? I’ll only be gone for a little while.”

I just nod mutely, leaning the crutches against the wall and settling down on the bed. I lay the ice pack across my ankle as he turns to go, keys in hand.

There’s a strange hiccup in his movement, like a half-hesitated misstep where his mind and body don’t exactly match up on whether he wants to turn back toward me or continue toward the door.

“See you in a bit,” he says.

I frown but before I can even open my mouth, he’s already disappeared out the door.

The stirring in my chest begins again as I stare at the blank whiteness of the door. It's a clenching, jerking weight beneath my sternum. It's a sinking, icy dread that begins to seep slowly outwards.

I screw my eyes shut against it.

_I never thought-_

I take in a deep breath, hold it, let it out.

I can’t let myself fall to pieces right now. Not when I have no place to do it where Marco won’t see. So I open my eyes and reach for my lifeline.

My iPod’s sitting on the coffee table next to my pile of clothes and smokes, charger cord snaking away from it and down to an outlet on the wall by the sliding glass door.

The relief when the music starts is almost visceral.

I am a child alone in the dark, afraid of the monsters beneath my bed. But this music is a blanket pulled up over my head. Somehow I can convince myself that the childish rules I have conjured in my mind will really protect me. That as long as I am fully covered, have blocked every piece of me from the outside for the time being, those horrors cannot reach me.

I try to let myself sink into the way the notes begin, lightly, beautifully, like leaves landing across water.

 

_I’m looking for answers but I’m blinded by the light_

 

The pulse of a beat ripples through me as it grows, another rhythm seeming to swim up into the song as if emerging from the depths of water. It is cool, calming, easing the tension from me as I descend further.

 

_I’m lost in the music can I stay here for the night?_

 

I bite my lip, keeping my eyes closed, trying not to think about the way light sparkles and dapples blindingly through gently flowing water behind my eyes, the way it passes through it as if it is nothing… nothing at all.

 

_I promise I’ll be gone in the morning_

_Out of sight and out of mind_

 

The pulsing, heavy beat swells, blossoming inside of me, spreading to every corner and I sigh at the feeling, the surrender I can allow myself here.

 

 _Snowblind_ …

 

The chorus crashes and I am submerged, the sounds muffled like swirling water against your ears beneath the surface. Those gorgeous pings of hopping notes still drift and fall to the water above me.

But it begins to churn around me, rapids growing stronger and I cannot fight against it, mounting and mounting until it crashes and I am swept away.

 

_Just for tonight, let your thoughts be free_

 

There is relief, though, in letting it carry me, in giving in all my fighting and conflicting thoughts and just following where the current carries me. There are spikes of fear amongst it, glimpses of rocks amid the crashing water, but the way the sunlight sparkles through it high above me is so beautiful I barely tear my eyes away to notice them as they fly past.

 

_Just for tonight, let the lines get blurred_

_Just for tonight_

_Oh, snowblind…_

 

Rhythmic, but slowing.

It is suddenly quiet again. The water is swirling but I can move my arms again, move my legs of my own accord against the pull of the water, invisible around me.

I tilt my head upwards.

 

_You know when you keep running but your legs are standing still_

 

I am slowly drifting. Calm. Dappled light from the sun high overhead filters through the water. The surface is a swirling, smeared watercolor that shimmers above me.

 

_It’s like you’re stuck in a nightmare but you keep doing it for the thrill_

 

I try to straighten my legs in the apparent shallowness, try to push my head through the water’s surface again, reach my hand upwards toward the sky. But my legs won’t find purchase.

 

_Well this is reality, you only live it once so wake up from your dream_

 

So instead... I drift. I watch the way the leaves keep falling beautifully onto the surface over my head, watch the light filter softly down to me.

 

_But just fall tonight, let the lines get blurred_

_Let your thoughts be free..._

 

The swirling current begins again, rushing, roaring, tugging at my limbs and my mind.

So I keep my eyes shut and let it take me.

I apparently fall asleep listening to music because when I blink my eyes open again, the light coming in through the blinds and the alarm clock still on the floor beside Marco’s blanket nest tells me it’s afternoon.

The apartment is quiet still. Marco must not be back yet.

The thing in my chest surges at the realization.

Shifting on the bed, the now melted and room temperature ice pack slides off my ankle. I swallow against the mounting roar in my mind. But my eyes land almost immediately the misshapen mound of my belongings on the coffee table. My clothes and my smokes.

I take a deep breath.

This weight on my chest is familiar after all, this ache a constant companion. This is a well-worn path in my mind and muscle memory makes my fingers itch to rise to my lips, to inhale and close my eyes.

The familiarity of ritual, of senses and movement is a near siren song with the way my fingers begin to fidget against the bedspread.

How long before I use up all my lifelines and am left stranded?

I sigh, sitting up, and reach for my crutches.

 

 

 

Opening a sliding door with crutches is a bit more difficult than you’d imagine. Especially with one hand also full of two slender metal cylinders that make gripping the door even harder.

But with a few muttered curses and only one wince-worthy crash of a crutch falling against the coffee table, I manage to make my way out onto Marco’s tiny balcony.

The view looks different when not lit by the brightly splashed colors of setting sun. The greens of the trees are brighter in the courtyard below, the white walls of the neighboring buildings are nearly blinding.

I ease the crutches out from under my arms, balancing them against the railing before leaning my weight on my elbows there.

The first drag is heaven.

A cool breeze that picks up across the courtyard nudges the small trees into a slow, subtle swaying. When I feel it reach me like a light caress across the hairs on my arms, paired with the milky texture of thick smoke rolling into my mouth, I relax further onto my elbows and let it out in slow stream.

I trick the blackness stretching behind my ribs into curling back up for a time as I smoke in silence and watch the wind play with the trees.

I lose track of how long I watch mouthful after mouthful of smoke float away on the breeze, curling in on itself in hypnotic tangles before it dissipates into the air high above me. I almost forget the distant throb of my ankle and the nervous, clenched tension of Marco’s shoulders beneath my arms and the doors within me lined with locks from top to bottom upon which I can hear a soft but insistent rapping.

So lost am I on the drifting of smoke and the mindless, steady repetition of inhales and exhales that the clattering slide and crash of a sliding door opening directly above me nearly causes me to topple off the goddamn balcony.

"And you didn't think I should know about this?"

I freeze where I’d fallen back, leaning against the glass door, hearing the clunk of shoes on the balcony above me.

Mine.

My eyes widen as I stare up at two pairs of shoes through the slats of wood. They’ve come to a stop―a smaller pair over by the railing and the other, larger set leaning against the right edge.

"I didn't think it mattered." The calm voice that replies is so quiet I almost don't hear it. Soft, low, biting.

I know that voice...

"Didn't-" The first voice cuts off in a frustrated exhale before continuing. It’s low, rumbling, and even though the tone is much different than the last time I’d heard it, I recognize it. "I've been selling that shit to people, Annie!”

A part of me relaxes at the recognition of the voice. Not a burglar. Reiner. Who can get into my apartment because he’s fixing my door. But the words send my mind spinning, screaming, my limbs frozen in place. I hear the click of a lighter and the familiar, captivating smell of cigarette smoke.

“I’ve been selling it like it was the same cut. And now you're saying you switched suppliers and didn't _tell me_?” Reiner continues, voice rising. “I've got no idea what's in this new shit. I could have seriously fucked someone up!"

I’m frozen in place, terrified of moving, of making the slightest sound that might alert them to my eavesdropping.

"Not your neck of the woods." I hear Annie reply calmly. "I deal with supply, you and Bertholdt sell. That's how we do things."

"I _sell_ drugs. I don't _lie_ about them," Reiner spits, voice low and edged with bitterness.

"If you don't like it, why don't you just leave?" she asks, voice cold, solid.

"Maybe I would if I had somewhere to fucking go!" Reiner exclaims, the bitter edge to his voice sharpening. "Not all of us are lucky enough to have parents to fall back on that didn't run us out of the house with a _goddamn shotgun_!"

"Look," Annie starts after a moment of ringing silence. I see smoke, the more airy, transparent smoke of a real cigarette drift past the edge. "I just meant-"

"I know what you meant." The reply is short, stiff. "We all have bills to pay, Annie. I get it. But we all get a say in this and _I_ say I need to know what I'm selling people. Capice?"

"All right, so what do you want me to do?" The words sound as if they come through clenched teeth, almost resentful.

"For starters, talk to this new whoever and let me know exactly what's in the new shit. Also, I don't want you selling on your own anymore."

"Why's that?"

"Cause you don't care." Reiner’s larger feet take a few, seemingly aimless steps across the small balcony and settle at the other end.

"What does that mean?"

"I saw you with that blonde kid on Saturday. Don't sell if it's not good for them to have it. Those are our rules."

"He had money, why should it matter?" More smoke. I watch it drift out into the air, whipped away by the wind. I’m still frozen.

"Because it- Did you _see_ him? He was crying.”

“And guess what made his night a hell of a lot better?” Annie’s voice is dark with sarcasm. “Oh, that would be the Molly I sold him.” In response, Reiner lets out a frustrated half sigh, half growl.

“You don’t- That shit’s wood soaked in gasoline and I am _not_ gonna be the one responsible for selling people matches. Jesus Christ. I'm a drug dealer not a heartless bitch. Unlike some of us."

"Oh, get off your soapbox."

Before Reiner replies, I hear the faint electronic chiming of a cell phone, followed by some rummaging and another beep.

“Hey, babe, what’s up?” Reiner answers, his feet shuffling above me. A pause. “Fixing that door over on Big River Ave. Jean, remember him? Nervous kid with the DJ?” Another pause. I frown. “Yeah, should only be a bit. Annie wanted a smoke break. Mhm. Okay, love you too, babe. Bye.” I hear a beep as he hangs up the phone.

“Bert?”

Reiner sighs.

“Yeah. We should get back soon. You done out here?”

“Sure.”

My heart is _hammering_ inside my chest as I hear the loud clank of the door above me sliding shut and all the air seems to rush out of my lungs in a too-loud wheeze.

My mind is beginning to spin with their words but I almost jump out of my skin when a loud beeping erupts from my pocket. Fishing out my phone, still trying to quiet my breathing, I see the blinking light in the corner that means I have an unread text message.

Beside the text message icon, I see my voicemail icon’s also been highlighted on the top of my toolbar. I shake my head to clear it, electing to read the message first, leaning once again against the railing.

 

 **From Connie:** [hey did you get erens voicemail?? call him back]

 

“Eren’s voicemail?” I whisper as my eyes dart up to illuminated icon again. “When did-”

It would seem my nerves are pretty much shot at this point because when the rapping on the glass door startles me only jump about two feet off the ground this time.

I swivel, eyes wide, shoving my phone hastily in my pocket, to see Marco holding the blinds to one side and waving his hand to me. I wave back a bit dazed. And a bit wary.

He points to the door handle and I shrug. The door slides open and he leans his head out, giving me a smile grin.

“May I?”

“‘s your place,” I reply softly, scooting aside as best I can as he comes to stand next to me at the railing. “How was the store?” I ask, swallowing against the spinning in my head.

He just shrugs.

His sudden presence and the resurgence of all the conflict his closeness stirs up inside of me has wiped my mind and I can't seem to remember what I was thinking about.

It’s silent for a moment, the only sound between us now the faint rustle of leaves in the slight breeze and the distant sound of footsteps on the stairs somewhere below us.

I look up to the sky, the way the clouds curl there like smoke as they trail lazily past us.

“Looks like it might rain sometime soon,” I manage to mutter distantly, noting the way the pure white tendrils leading into the distance gain the dark grey color of coming rain as they stretch into the distance.

“Jean,” Marco starts in that same voice he’d used yesterday at the kitchen table, “I’m sorry about earlier. I didn’t mean for it to seem like I was blowing you off. It was just...” He trails off with a sigh.

I just nod, not knowing how to reply. I’m happy that his relaxed confidence seems to have returned for the time being.

“It wasn’t anything you did, I promise.” I see his head tilt downwards, sagging a bit on his elbows. “Just stuff with work. I needed some time to… to think about things.”

“That phone call?”

“Yeah.”

“But you’re okay?” Marco turns his head to me, eyes roving over my face with intense focus, the corners of his eyes creasing the slightest bit.

“I am now,” he states simply, firmly, extending his arms and leaning back a bit, his hands still resting on the railing. We stare out at the swaying trees in the courtyard and watch a squirrel scurry past below us. “I just don’t deal well with feeling helpless.”

The words are soft, muttered. I turn to find him staring up at the sky as well with eyes that look like they’re searching for something to be found behind the clouds there. But then he glances back to meet my gaze and the pensive, almost forlorn expression transforms into a smile.

He turns to me fully then, his eyes bright with the late afternoon sunlight teetering on the edge of evening that flashes off his eyes in glints of gold. He reaches out a hand to rest softly on my shoulder, the outside of his thumb barely brushing the column of my neck.

“But you’ve got this way of making me feel like I can do anything.”

That thing is stuck in my throat again. And it’s only the weight of his hand and the warmth of his eyes that keep that blackness from opening beneath my feet again and swallowing me up.

“Now, I don’t know about you, but I’m getting kinda hungry. Wanna help me make dinner?”

 

 

 

Turns out any cooking ability I may have possessed is greatly inhibited by inability to stand without crutches that take up half of Marco’s tiny strip of kitchen space.

So after a broken plate and a few stubbed toes I’m exiled to the cluttered table to slice up chicken and chop carrots he’d gotten at the store.

Marco’s been hopping around from cabinet to cabinet, humming along with the music playing from the speakers over by the TV again.

“So what are we making again?” I ask as the next song begins to thrum through the living room.

“Stir fry,” Marco calls back to me. “Easy cause you can just throw a mishmash of whatever you want in it.”

 

_I know that we are upside down_

_So hold your tongue and hear me out_

 

Marco bounces to the music as he pops open the beeping rice maker. It spews a puff of smoke that rises in curling tendrils. He begins to scoop the rice from it into a pan on the tiny stove beside him.

 

_I know that we were made to break_

_So what? I don’t mind_

 

I turn back to chopping carrots.

“I haven’t made dinner for someone in." He pauses. "Well, quite a while, actually. This is... this is really nice," he chirps, soy sauce in one hand, wooden spoon in the other. His chipper mood and the rhythmic solidity of the music has me settled in my skin.

 

_You kill the lights, I’ll draw the blinds_

_Don’t dull the sparkle in your eyes_

 

The air smells like rice and soy sauce and Marco and I can feel myself relaxing.

“Is it because they were scared to eat your food after the first time?” I joke.

He shoots me a glare over his shoulder.

“Says you who ate all my pancakes yesterday, mister. And you’d better watch what you say to the guy holding a wooden spoon.” He lifts it in mock threat.

“I see your spoon and raise you a knife,” I reply, holding it up and grinning. Marco just rolls his eyes and turns back to the frying pan. I snicker.

 

_Are you gonna stay the night?_

 

The music picks up around us, rushing toward the chorus and we let it fill the comfortable silence between us as he turns on the stove burner and I move to chop up the thawed chicken breast.

 

_Doesn’t mean we’re bound for life_

_Oh, are you gonna stay the night?_

 

I can’t help bouncing my good leg at the drop, at the way it pulses through the air and my chest alike. Marco’s bouncing as well over at the stove. I watch the way his broad back flexes as he stirs the rice around, watch the shifting of muscles in his arms. The music seems to flow in one part of him and out another, like it finds in him a medium of travel, accepts him as part of its fabric. Like he can somehow grasp its essence and let it grasp his.

 

_I am a fire. Gasoline,_

_Come pour yourself all over me_

 

He shoots me a smile over his shoulder and I can’t even bring myself to look away in embarrassment.

 

_We’ll let this place go down in flames_

_Only one more time_

 

He leaves the rice sizzling in the pan and reaches his arm out to me. I hand him the chopped carrots and chicken and he returns to the stove to dump them in among the rice and sauce and specks of green I think are broccoli.

“Nearly done now," Marco calls over the lead up to the bridge, glancing back at me. “Oh, hm. The table is kinda messy still. Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” I reply, already starting to shuffle things to clear more space.

“No, no, it’s okay. We can just eat over by the TV if you want. More room.”

 

_I know that we were made to break_

 

“Uh, sure.”

 

_So what? I don’t mind._

 

After another minute, he clicks off the stove burner, reaching for two bowls he’d set on the counter beside him, left of the rice maker. I watch him, the line of his jaw, the way he pokes his tongue out of the corner of his mouth as he tries to scoop half into each, the way his eyebrows furrow endearingly in concentration.

 

_So… are you gonna stay the night- night- night- night-_

 

The pan is set back down on the backburner with a clang and he fishes silverware out of a drawer by his hip before turning to me with a bowl in each hand and a grin lighting his face.

He's so goddamn beautiful.

 

_Are you gonna stay the night?_

 

“Shall we?”

 

 

 

“And then he runs across the stage, does this crazy backflip because, y’know, gymnast, right? Snatches the diploma out of the guy’s hand _midair_ and then runs off the stage. It was _legendary_.”

Dishes abandoned on the coffee table still pushed to one side, Marco and I are again seated on the bed, side by side, this time our feet dangling off the side toward the TV.

He flops backwards a bit after the conclusion of his story, face bright with excitement, breathless from laughing and smiles at me.

“So it really is straight outta the movies, huh?” I ask, grinning back at him.

“Mine certainly was." He pauses, tilting his head to look up at me, smile falling the slightest bit. “I forgot, you didn’t graduate from college, did you?”

I shake my head in reply, looking away from him. He sits up, the light air he’d managed once again to effortlessly whip up around us fading like waking from a dream.

“Do you ever think about going back to school?” He asks, voice soft.

I pause.

“Sometimes,” I admit. “But not for long, really. Dunno why it’d be different if I tried again. I’d probably just end up wasting even more money.”

“What were you majoring in?” Marco asks me. I can feel the blocks coming up in my mind, the uncomfortable crawling in my skin.

“Undecided,” I mutter, barely moving my lips.

I see Marco nod and look away from me out of the corner of my eye, ever wary and sensitive to my stupid moodiness.

_I never thought..._

“Are all of your friends in school still?” he asks instead. “The ones you go to Karanese with?” I shake my head, the change of subject lifting a fraction of the pressure from my shoulders.

“Nah, Sasha and Connie graduated a while back.”

“Hoop girl and lightshow boy,” Marco says, a smile in his voice.

“Mhm.”

“What do they do now?” I take a sip of my drink as he asks the question.

“Oh, uh, Sasha shot through the corporate latter of some shipping company she was intern at. She’s almost head of their HR department now.”

“Wow,” Marco states. “Lucky.” I grin.

“She deserves it. Don't let her fool you, she's _crazy_ smart. And Connie’s a comic book artist.” I pause. “Well, he’s a comic book artist that works as a fry cook right now,” I relent. “But, I mean, he’s really good! You should see some of his stuff. Just… not work much out there for that kinda stuff right now.”

“What’s he draw?” Marco asks.

“Superheroes.” I grin.

“Oh, cool! I’d like to see some of his stuff sometime. I was way into superhero comics in middle school.”

“Oh, yeah?” The brightness in his eyes and the straightening of his back in excitement is intoxicating. “Got a favorite?”

“Spiderman,” he replies without hesitation, nodding enthusiastically. “Hands down.” I grin into my glass.

“Any particular reason?”

Marco tilts his head up, considering.

“I think its cause- Hmm, how do I say this? At the end of the day he feels most human to me. He’s this scrawny, scared guy who has stuff thrust on him he doesn’t deserve, but… he still manages to make the world around him better. The things he has to fight through make me appreciate him even more.” He returns his gaze to me, eyes soft. My fingertips itch to feel his skin beneath them. But he grins, the bright amusement returning to him as he continues. “Not to mention he _might_ have been my gay awakening.” I raise one eyebrow at him.

“Gay for Spiderman? Really?”

Marco rolls his eyes, smile widening.

“Jean, let's be honest. Everyone’s a little gay for Spiderman.” I sigh and shrug. He laughs as he moves to stand up from the bed, clapping a hand on my shoulder as he does. “Which reminds me. The infamous Daylight playlist? Got a song I wanna show you, if that’s okay.”

“About being gay for Spiderman?” I ask, snorting. I watch him move to pick up his abandoned iPod beside the TV. The screen lights up, illuminating his face as he scrolls through it.

“...In a way,” he replies softly, lips still spread in a smile as he sets the iPod back down and returns to sit on the bed beside me.

I wait.

The small, light pinging notes start softly, light like fireflies in summer, like an encouraging smile. A subtle beat begins beneath the melodic string, a ticking clock in a quiet room.

Marco lets out a long exhale beside me then turns to me. His expression is open, unguarded. He's holding out his hand, palm upturned, almost as if instead of to say _can I hold your hand_ , it says _come with me_.

 

_Everyday people do everyday things but_

_I can’t be one of them_

 

I swallow as the vocals slide through the first verse, my fingers fitting into his the way I know they will, the way they weave together like a puzzle locking into place.

Marco is looking at me in such adoration that I can’t bear it and so lower my gaze to our fingers, watching the way his thumb runs soothingly over the back of my hand.

 

_I know you hear me now, we are a different kind_

_We can do anything_

 

Marco squeezes his hand around mine and something in my chest surges in the same way the music does, arcing in pure, bold lines behind my eyes.

 

_We could be heroes_

 

The chords of piano rise like rhythmic stairs appearing as I feel the music open a path before my feet, up and up and up.

 

 _We could be heroes, me and you_.

 

The music feels like running up these stairs into a golden haze, unable to feel the burn in your legs from running because the idea of reaching the top is so all encompassing everything else falls away.

“I love it,” I whisper, not realizing my eyes have drifted closed as I listened.

“I knew you would,” Marco replies, his hand solid in mine and it feels so familiar in a way I can’t place. Like it’s something that has steadied me, pulled me back from some plummeting edge.

The sound twists, narrowing as it fades back into a verse.

 

_Anybody’s got the power_

_They don’t see it ‘cause they don’t understand_

 

I squeeze my eyes shut even tighter, my head filling with golden light, once again feeling like I am drifting along in some dream Marco has spun for me.

 

_Spinning ‘round and ‘round for hours_

_You and me, we got the world in our hands_

 

“You really _hear_ music, don’t you?” I hear Marco breathe from beside me, almost disbelieving. “It’s wonderful.”

I shake my head as the music rises again. I can almost feel the ache in my chest, the rush of excitement in my stomach of being high, high above the world, rising further and further with each panting breath.

 

_We could be heroes_

 

“‘s the only time I don’t feel like I’m in pieces,” I whisper, head lost in the dizzying sight of the world spread out before me, alight in shimmering gold.

 

_Me and you, we could be…_

 

“Jean…” Marco starts, but doesn’t continue. He just lets the music plane into a long, shimmering bridge as I pause, looking over the edge at the world down below, the wind whipping at my hair and my vision sharp from adrenaline.

 

_All we’re lookin’ for is love and a little light_

_Love and a little light_

 

I open my eyes, the golden shimmer of the song following me back into Marco’s apartment in the way the soft light of the lamp shines in Marco’s eyes. Because the first thing I see is him watching me, studying me.

 

_All we're lookin' for is love and a little light_

_Love and a little light_

_We could be..._

And the look on his face is like last night all over again, like I am some incredible, improbable thing that has appeared beside him and he can’t seem to believe I exist the way I do here on his bed with our fingers still laced together.

The song fades, but immediately another starts up and Marco’s head turns toward the speakers at the shift.

“Oh, sorry, it was set to the playlist.”

I tilt my head, listening. The same melody is reaching me. Soft, warm, golden.

“Is this the same song?” I ask and Marco nods, sheepishly.

“A remix,” He relents. “I really like this one.”

“It’s okay, I like it too.”

 

_We could hide away- away- in daylight_

 

He smiles again at the way this version slides through the familiar sounds only softer, somehow closer. More like the late morning sun streaming through a window on a Sunday morning. Like the comforting slide of a hand across your skin. Like relaxation. Like comfort.

 

_We could be heroes_

 

Marco bites his lip, studying me as the song drops into a slow, rhythmic lull.

“Jean…?”

Had he been this close to me this whole time? I can see the flecks of gold in his eyes, the dozens of different shades of brown that bring them out like the black of the night's sky brings out the stars.

I think about the night sky and about other things that shine there. About last night and the kiss and how Marco thinks I belong up in the sky with him. That we are somehow all the moon.

“Yeah?” I reply, my voice coming out in a whisper.

“I’d like to kiss you again. If that’s okay.”

_Okay._

That word again.

That feeling of being, for a tiny sliver of time, not fractured, not scattered within myself. The feeling I get inside music. That feeling of being settled. Like I am part of the world around me.

 

 _Me and you, we could be_ …

 

But it’s still there. In my chest. Even amidst the golden light and the feel of Marco’s fingers in mine.

That grip around my heart squeezing when I think about it.

“ _You’re worth it_. _”_

Because he shouldn’t _want_ to kiss me again. People like him shouldn’t want people like me _at all._ But, _God,_ I am so, so weak. Weak to feel his lips on mine again, weak to feel his hands softly on my jaw.

“Yeah,” I say instead because the other word is too hard to form.

But Marco’s brow furrows, his free hand coming to rest on the side of my neck and I hate the way I can’t help but lean into it.

I hear the song end, like crackling sparks of a fire drifting away into nighttime shadows. The room goes quiet aside from the slide of blankets beneath us as Marco tilts his head, considering me with an expression that makes my heart clench.

“Tell me what you’re thinking.”

I bite my lip.

_About how much of a mismatched pair we are. That you are light and the sun and all I do is take and take and take._

_That I don’t want to think about_ anything _right now cause I'm consumed by the fact that I don’t feel like I could ever reach you. And I don’t even want to_ consider _the possibility of your brightness leaving the sky for someone like me._

“That I want to kiss you again so badly I can’t stand it,” I say instead.

He doesn’t smile like I thought he would, or lean in to kiss me again, or sigh in happiness. Instead he narrows his eyes under raised eyebrows in a way that make him look almost sad.

But I can’t tell him anything more.

Because I don’t want to think about any of that.

All I want to think about is how his smiles feel against my skin, how his hair feels against my fingers, how his sighs of contentment or pleasure are more calming than any reassurance. All I want to think about is how he can somehow trick me for a time into believing I belong up in the sky with him instead of the hypnotized little moth I am desperately reaching toward something bright.

All I want to think about is Marco being happy and Marco feeling good and Marco getting everything he deserves.

Which is the whole goddamn world.

And I don’t want to think about how much less than that I have to offer him.

All I want to think about now is what I _can_ give him as I lean to kiss him again so I don’t have to see him looking at me so sadly. So I don't have to watch him try to reach through my eyes to those doors I lock so tightly because I am _so afraid_ and knock at them gently.

My mind is a muddled jumble of flashing images and fragmented words and I _don’t want to think anymore_.

His lips are warm and soft, but there is an urgency there I cannot help as I lean into him, cannot help but slide my hand up into his hair, can’t help but part my lips, can’t help my breath hitching as he slides his tongue along my bottom lip.

It’s so good it almost burns me.

_I never thought someone would-_

“I care about you so much, Jean.” His whisper is more breath than words against my lips, the soft caress of his hand sliding down the length of my back solid and warm. “Talk to me. I need to know if this is okay.”

But this isn’t a question of okay and not okay. It is far more complicated than that.

Because there is something in me that is fractured down to the very core.

And I can forget about it for glorious moments when music fills my head, when people as talented as Marco can fill it for me with such beauty I don’t have to live in its dark fractures for a time.

But the thing is, I don’t know how to be wanted like this, to be cared about without feeling like a goddamn parasite, a ball and chain.

If Marco had thought any part of him held true darkness, then he's surely never seen what lives inside of me.

Yet I want it so badly. Want _him_ so badly. Want his hands and his sighs and his body and his words and his mind and his soul. And I can’t reconcile it within myself.

I feel like I am going to split apart at the seams. My insides are filling with acidic blackness that aches against my ribs while his hands simultaneously calm and encourage it.

I will be corroded from the inside by longing or by guilt and this thing that lives inside me has doomed me from the very start.

My lips can’t manage to form the words “It’s okay” because they feel so hollow, so incomplete inside my mind. So instead I lean in again, my lips against his neck. I revel in the heat I find there as I mouth softly along his skin, in the hot puff of air across my ear as he gasps.

The sound is glorious.

I swallow, realizing we've tipped sideways, now laying the long ways on the bed, my weight half on top of him.

“Let me make you feel good,” I whisper against his skin, laving gently against the edge of his jaw below his ear. “Please.”

“J-Jean,” he whimpers as I nip slowly up along the shell of his ear, a hand tightening in the fabric of my shirt. My hand not buried in his hair slides gently down his side, coming to rest at his hip. “You don’t have-”

“I want to,” I insist, stroking the sliver of skin above the waistband of his jeans.

“N-no it’s just-” He pushes gently against my chest and the thrill of anxiety that shoots through me is almost painful. I oblige, though, letting him sit upright against the pillows as he catches his breath.

“Did I do something wrong?” I manage to force out. His laugh is breathless, his hand coming to rest on my cheek and when I meet his eyes they’re warm.

“No, not at all. I just…” His eyes flick away for a second before returning. “I feel like I need to tell you if we’re going to, um, go forward in this direction.” My cheeks burn. _Breathe, Jean, breathe_. “The medication I take, the antidepressants, they make it hard to, um…” He takes in a deep breath as if steeling himself, a flush rising even brighter in his cheeks. “It makes it hard for me to have an orgasm.” He rushes on before I can even open my mouth. “I just w-wanted you to, uh, be aware so you didn’t think it was anything to do with you if I didn’t end up, y’know…” He lets out a long breath, eyes coming back to meet mine.

My brain isn’t really functioning at this point so I can’t even begin to put a response together.

“Do you- I mean, not want to, like… anymore…”

“No!” Marco exclaims, his eyes widening after a split second at the volume of the word. “I mean, no, I want to, ah, keep going if you want to. Just, um, _that_ … well, ‘s not really what it’s about for me, I guess.” He looks sheepish. “Lot more to the experience. So I don’t really mind.”

I frown.

“Are you... sure?” His answering nod is emphatic.

“Absolutely.”

“So it’s…” I hesitate, running my finger along the line of his waistband again and his answering shudder makes me bold. “It’s okay if I…?” I glance down at my finger dancing along the button of his jeans and the swell of the fabric against the zipper makes my mouth dry.

Marco nearly moans when he realizes what my muttered half-sentences couldn’t manage to state outright.

“Oh my God, oh my God, of course it’s okay, Jean. As long as _you’re_ -” I lean in, silencing him with a kiss, determined to let this be the one place that I can give and not feel like I am falling into a nothingness below me.

 _Let me give you this_.  _Please let me give you an ounce of what you give to me._

_Let me light up your body like you light up my soul and maybe I will feel like there is ground under my feet afterwards._

I try not to let the wave of _whatifwhatifwhatif_ crash over my mind as I press him back to lay against the pillows and shimmy down his torso. I press soft kisses against the bare skin of his stomach, along the line of hair leading downwards as I settle on my stomach between his legs.

“God, you’re _beautiful_ …”

I glance up and his eyes are wide, pupils blown with desire, hair sticking up from our kissing and he is watching me with a reverence that makes my chest ache.

And I don’t remember ever being called beautiful before.

But the way he says it makes it seem full of more than a word should carry. Like some vast thing that goes beyond itself. Like the word “peace” or “hope” or “love.”

 _He_ seems vast, like this, endless. Like there is so much of him and not enough of me to take it all in. Too much skin for me to be able to kiss, too many nuances to his sighs and hitches of breath for me to understand, too much warmth behind his eyes and it feels like it will sear me.

I just duck my head without comment to continue undoing the button of his jeans.

Managing to undo his fly, I almost don’t hear the soft the half-sigh, half-groan he gives in the wake of the subtly tented blue fabric of his boxer briefs that's revealed as I do so. I let out a breath shaky with desire and I see it twitch beneath the fabric at the sound.

I bite my lip at the image, at the strain against his briefs, at the damp patch of even deeper blue forming already at one end of the line of his cock.

“H-holy shit,” I breathe, running my palm softly across the fabric, over the ridge of him and feel him twitch beneath my hand again.

“Nnnn,” Marco groans.

“Good?” I asks, palming him through his boxers more firmly and he lets out a choked noise above me.

“Y-yeah- yes. Definitely good.” I manage a half-grin.

“You gotta tell me what you like, though, okay?” I mutter, lifting my hand to curl my fingers under his waistband and pull downwards, “Since I don’t know exactly what you-”

“W-wait-!” Marco jack-knifes up, hand flying to catch my wrist, but already the right side of the fabric is down far enough for the damage to be done.

On the outside of very top of Marco’s thigh, now revealed to me in the soft light, I see a thick web of white, jagged lines, hash-marked across each other in varying widths and lengths. They reach nearly up to his hip and stop just above where the edge of his boxers fell.

I suck in a breath, unable to tear my eyes from the scars. Marco’s hand still trembles above my wrist.

“Marco…” My mouth opens and closes wordlessly like a fish out of water. I’d understood what he meant last night, but seeing it―seeing the physical proof of darkness swallowing Marco whole like this―is different.

I finally manage to lift my gaze to his face.

He is sitting, seemingly still, head tilted up to the ceiling is if he can’t bear to look down anymore. I see then that he is trembling ever so slightly, the point of his chin even more-so and I realize he’s trying to keep his lip from quivering.

“Oh, God, I’m so sorry…” I breathe, pulling the fabric back up over his thigh into place again. “I didn’t know, I-”

“N-No, I should have-” His voice gives out before he can finish, knuckles white in the sheets beside him. “I should have warned you, I’m sorry. I just-”

“Don’t apologize,” I insist, running my hand soothingly over the skin just above his knee. I would crawl up to kiss the corners of his eyes and soothe away the knot between his eyebrows if it wouldn’t be an entire ordeal given the state of my ankle. “Don’t ever apologize for this. Please.”

He only bites his lip in response, still unable to look down at me.

_Let me give you this._

“Marco,” I start softly, everything in me screaming to let him know that it’s okay, _he’s_ okay, that scars and all, _he_ is the brave one here. _He_ is the one who’s beautiful. “Can I…?” I trail off, my hand ghosting over the edge of his waistband again.

“Jean, I-” His voice comes out in a heart wrenching waiver.

“Not for that. Not yet. Just…” I let out a breath, frustrated at the way words always fail me when I need to reach him.

Marco lets out a shuddering breath before he nods once, very slowly.

I swallow and slowly, giving him time to protest again, slide both sides of the fabric down his legs and off, jeans and all. He shifts slightly to help me and I let out a breath at that subtle sign of trust.

His cock is soft now, uncut and resting to one side. But that’s not what I’m looking at now. I’m looking at the way his other leg is just the same, a hashed forest of white scars.

Except on this side, across the densest patch on the outside of his thigh, a tattoo is inked in bold black.

The shape of a waveform skates across the uneven scar tissue over the curve of his thigh, bordered by words in a flowing, curling script: “ _For all that is beautiful._ ”

 

 _And now... I cry for all that is beautiful_.

 

“ _But this song… this song helped me get through that.”_

 

God, he deserves the world.

My hand reaches for it, fingertips brushing along the waveform’s shape and the muscle of Marco’s thigh jerks under my touch, a soft sob seeming to rip its way from his chest unbidden.

“It’s all right, Marco,” I whisper, laying my hand more deliberately over his thigh, fingers caressing the skin. “It’s okay. It’s okay.”

I lean down to his other leg, hand still tracing the lines of his scars and his tattoo, and press my lips to the edge of the scarred patch.

Marco gasps and I can feel him curl above me, now looking down instead of away toward the ceiling.

The catching of his breaths above me is not in desire now, but that of someone trying to hold back tears. I kiss down and across and back around the sprawl of scars, the texture rough and uneven beneath my lips, trying to convey how I cannot with words how incredible I think he is.

How strong I think he is.

How he is bright and brave and talented and patient and kind and how no amount of scars could ever make him less to me.

“You deserve the world,” I whisper against his skin as I feel a hand slip into my hair. “You deserve the _world_.”

“Jean,” he whispers above me, voice cracking again and it makes me pause.  I dare to glance up at him again to find a wetness filming over his eyes. Not enough to pour over and down his face, just enough to make them glitter in the low light. His gaze burns with tenderness, with adoration. Like he is transfixed. “Jean...” he repeats in a breathy exhale, shaking his head the barest bit. “I don’t want the world. I just want you.”

And for a moment with his scars beneath my hands and my soul beneath his gaze… I’m very nearly convinced it’s enough.

That I’m enough.

Because Marco’s got this way of making me feel like I can be.

That even with all of my fractures and trembling and the way I am slowly filling with a blackness I know will swallow me whole, have seen it do so before… he makes me feel like this time might be different.

I return to trailing open mouthed kisses across his scars once more before slowly beginning to move to the skin along the inside of his hip. On the other side, I bring my hand in to do the same, sliding over the gentle curve of tanned skin to the inside of his thigh, fingertips light along softness there.

The sharp inhale is different this time, lower, as he realizes what I’m doing.

“Okay?” I ask and the word is so much easier when it comes out as a question instead of a confirmation.

“Y-yeah,” Marco replies, breathless, and I can’t help the corners of my lips pulling up the smallest bit as I see him twitch the slightest bit against his leg.

I run my hand gently, deliberately closer to him, giving him time to pull back or protest but all I hear is a sharp, breathy “ _Fuck_ -” as I finally wrap my hand around his cock, half-hard now, and give it a loose pump.

His head falls back against the pillows there and he groans. I tighten my grip, my other hand coming to stroke soothingly over the planes of his stomach, tracing the trail of hair there.

I hide my mounting uncertainty by watching the subtle shifting of his hips, the twitching in his abs, the soft hitches of his breathing as I start a slow rhythm. The feeling of his growing hardness beneath my fingers makes my mouth dry. He’s heavy in my hand, warm and flushing dark pink where coarse dark hair meets the base.

He’s beautiful. Long and thick, the movement of my hand pulling back the foreskin with each stroke to reveal the dusty flushed head already growing slick with precome. There’s a thick vein along the underside that makes me eager to run my tongue across it.

“That feels so g-good, Jean, mmm… A-a little tighter." The low, breathlessness of Marco’s voice is like a shock down my spine, that same hunger I’d heard in it before with music around me and hips against my back creeping into the words. I tighten my grip around him and he groans. “ _Ahh_ , that’s it, sweetheart, just l-like that…”

I bite my lip, feeling my blood rushing to my own arousal at the words, at the endearment, at the heat in his voice.

Running my fingernails lightly across the top of his left thigh makes him hiss through his teeth and I love it. He’s fully hard now, slick at the tip, flushed and heavy in my hand and it makes me want to…

I lean, the bed squeaking mutely beneath my shifting weight, to lick a broad stripe over the ridge along the underside and he groans loudly, back arching at the sensation.

“Still okay?” I ask and my voice rasps. I keep stroking, the saliva I’d left making the motion of my hand glide more easily.

“ _G-god_ yes, Jean, _shit_ , I-” He pauses to swallow. “You don’t know how much I thought about this. Nnnn…”

I have to close my eyes at the intensity of the bold of shock of arousal that makes my cock twitch against my underwear. I lean forward again, running my lips along the length of him.

“You thought about this?” I whisper against him and he whimpers, his cock twitching against my lips. I glance up at him and he nods.

His eyes are closed, as if the image might be too much for him, his cheeks flushed a deep red. His tongue darts out to wet his parted lips. He’s so incredible like this, so overwhelmed, so lost in this and the image makes my heart sing.

I want to make him forget about all the demons that have etched themselves into his skin, about the things in his life that force up his hackles and make his steps waver.

I want to send him soaring.

“What about this?” Parting my lips, I take the tip into my mouth, sucking lightly, pushing my tongue gently into the little indent below his head.

“H-holy shit-!” he chokes, his body jerking at the feeling and fingers slip into my hair. I bob slowly, beginning to take more and more of him into my mouth, sucking gently at first to gauge what he likes.

He twitches in my mouth and the sensation against the pressing of my tongue makes me groan.

“Nn- D-do that again,” he pants, his voice deeper, lower and I shiver. The hand in my hair remains still, not pulling or carding through it further, but his other snakes down to lace with mine that had now come to rest on his hip.

I half sigh, half moan around him again, laving my tongue along the underside with more pressure and he arches beautifully under me. I pull off to run a broad lick across his underside again, pausing at the head to tongue at his foreskin. His fingers in mine clench almost painfully.

“God, you’re incredible, Jean. S-so beautiful, _Christ_. That’s so _good_.” His words are like fire along my veins and the feeling of him hard beneath my tongue and my hands, the sound of his voice around my name and those _amazing_ moans has me hard and leaking against the inside of my pajama pants.

I slip his cock back into my mouth, wrapping my hand around what I can’t fit, eyes closed. Bobbing faster, I take him further and I feel the hand in my hair clench almost involuntarily.

The tug races along my scalp and I groan around him again. He answers it with a ragged sigh of his own. I grind my hips into the mattress at the feeling, unable to keep them from bucking at the sensation.

“Do that again.” I pull back enough to whisper heatedly.

“This?” Marco breathes, an edge to his words and curls his fingers in my hair. He pulls again, a bit hard, forcing my head back. My eyelids flutter.

“Nnn,  _yeah,_ ” I moan and I hear him let out a stuttering sigh at the sound.

“You’re so amazing,” he breathes as I roll my head back forward, lips around him again, the wet slick sounds of my mouth distant to the roar in my ears and the pressing of my cock into the bed beneath me and Marco’s uneven breaths. "Jean, J-Jean, let me see you, beautiful. Look at me."

I open my eyes, still sliding up and down him wetly. I pull back to suck on the head as I flick my eyes up to his burning gaze. The flush of his cheeks has spread down his neck to dust the ridges of his collar bones, freckles nearly lost to it.

“That’s it, _oh,_ ” he pants, gazing down at me like he wants to devour me whole. His hand cards softly through my hair in contrast as I run my tongue along the ridge of his head, “Wanna see your eyes, sweetheart, G- _God,_ you're sexy..."

I keep my eyes on him as I pull back, slipping my tongue gently beneath his foreskin to swirl around the slick head and the groan he lets out is low and loud, reverberating in his chest.

“Tch- _Fuck_!” he punches out, his eyes rolling upwards before snapping shut, hand clenching in my hair. “Ho- Holy shit, sweetheart, you’re good at this.”

I let out a nervous little laugh as I pull back, the string of saliva stretching between my lips and his head breaking.

“Good to know. Do you think you could maybe…?” I ask, jerking my head toward him. His pupils are blown wide, eyes still bright, cheeks dark with a flush and he is glowing.

Marco runs a hand through my hair again before shaking his head.

“Don’t think so,” he replies with a regretful sigh.

“Oh.”

“But it was good, Jean. Like, _really_ good. I doubt I’d have lasted that long if it wasn’t for, y’know... Like, _Christ._ ”

I try to ignore the sinking in my chest at the words, try to ignore the rising storm of “unattractive,” “not good enough,” try to tamp them down and focus on the heaving of Marco’s chest as he tries to steady it, the sound of his voice and his moans, on the focus in his eyes as he stared down at me.

“Can I, uhm, return the favor?” he asks, eyes darting down along my body and I stiffen. “Whatever you’re comfortable with.” he adds hastily, seeing the tensing of my shoulders.

My brain almost shuts down at the idea of Marco’s hands on me, _mouth_ on me-

“I- I-I, uh, uhm,” I stutter, feeling my cock stiffen even further. “I mean, uhm-”

“I’d really, _really_ like to,” Marco continues, his voice dropping, hand in my hair slipping to cup my jaw. The gentle pressure tilts my face up to his so he can curl down to kiss me. “Jean,” he whispers against my lips. “I want to make you feel good too.”

I swallow.

And slowly, with his hand on my cheek and his burning gaze on me, I let him take the lead. Let him reach into my trembling, teetering unsteadiness and take my hand. I give over my balance to him.

Because I am weak.

I am weak and I want him and _dear God_ , he looks so beautiful right now.

I nod without comment and let him help me to my knees, careful of my ankle. He slips my shirt over my head before immediately ducking back to press soft, light kisses along my cheek and my jaw and my ear.

His hands slide down my sides as he mouths his way down my neck and I shudder at the feeling, at the way he seems to envelope me. I’m panting against him as his hands curl around my narrow hips, thumbs stroking along the lines of my hipbones.

My hands come up without thinking to clutch at his shoulder and the short hair at the back of his neck.

He sucks at the juncture of my neck and my shoulder, and I can’t help the way my hips buck forward at the curl of arousal that shoots downwards through me. I punch out a harsh breath through my nose.

“Can I mark you up?” Marco breathes, sounding nearly drunk on the question and I groan.

“Y-yeah, _yeah_ -” I mumble, my head swimming. The answering exhale sounds almost like a growl as his teeth sink into my neck and I bite my lip against the moan threatening to escape.

His right hand releases my hip to snake down between us, palming my through the cotton sleep pants and I can’t keep it in this time, arching into his hand with a loud moan.

“ _There_ we go, let me hear you,” he sighs into my neck. “Wanna hear how good you feel.”

I feel like I’m losing shape, pieces of me drifting away, the only thing keeping me solid is the way Marco’s hands and lips and voice seem to curl around me and press me back together.

“Lay down, yeah?” he says, pulling back and helping maneuver me onto my back with notable gentleness despite the predatory look in his eyes.

His hands slide a burning trail across my stomach as he slides the pants and underwear down my hips and with great care over my ankle to then toss them off the bed.

The realization that we’re both naked now, that _I’m_ naked almost makes me freeze. But his hands are back on me, their warmth a soothing presence and I relax.

They slide across my thighs and I tilt my head back to look at the ceiling, my breathing coming in short huffs because I can’t watch him, beautiful, amazing, _sexy-as-fuck_ , Marco kneeling between my legs naked.

I gasp when I feel his hand grip my cock, bucking up into it.

“ _Shit_ -”

“Mmm, now I get why you wear baggy pants dancing,” Marco hums, stroking me lightly. His thumb runs across the head, smearing the pre-come on the tip. His voice is sly, nearly sing-song, the grin it blatant. “Not bad _at all_.”

I just groan in response as he strokes me faster, his fingers deliciously tight around me. I’m panting, head back, eyes closed, focused on trying not to buck embarrassingly into his hand or whine at the way he flicks his wrist around the head at the top of a stroke.

“Don’t hold back, sweetheart. Please.” His voice is soft, encouraging and I bite my lip, moans jumping at the back of my throat to break free. “You make the hottest sounds, Jean. I wanna hear you.”

“Fuuuuck,” I finally groan as he swivels his hand around the head and I can’t help it any longer.

“There we go,” Marco breathes, dark and amused. Triumphant.

Through the sounds of my panting breaths and brainless, soft moans and _Marco’s hand on my skin,_ I hear another sound.

“A-are you-?” I start to ask, raising my head to look down and sure enough, Marco’s kneeling between my legs, stroking my cock with tight grip, eyes sharp and bright as he gazes up at me, his other hand loosely tugging at his own erection. “ _Shit…_ ” I breathe and he grins at me. My head falls back before I almost pass out.

It’s so good. _So good_. My hands are fisted in the sheets beside me, the strokes of his hand like delicious fire licking through my body.

His other hand skates from my knee up the inside of my thigh and I gasp loudly at the feeling of his fingertips along the skin there. He freezes.

“Are- are you that sensitive here?” he asks, running his hand back along the skin and I twist at the skittering shocks along my nerves that make my cock twitch.

“Y- I- d-dunno, just- nnn, feels… feels _really_ good,” I choke out, eyes still closed.

“Jean, have you, um, have you ever tried anything here? On your thighs?” I hear him ask, his hand still slowly stroking me. I shake my head, not trusting myself to speak. “Do you want to?”

I let out a slow breath, but I’m already caught in his web, caught in the closeness and the sounds and the way he is making my body sing and melt yet holding me together all at once.

“S-sure.”

That hand is on my jaw again, tilting my face to him every time I try to turn away.

“I’ll take care of you, Jean, okay?” His eyes are still bright, cock hard between his legs, hair sticking up haphazardly. He’s so beautiful.

I nod. I still can’t bring myself to say it back.

“Turn on your side,” he tells me and I shift onto my side so my bad ankle is on top, trying to keep my breathing under control.

Marco leans momentarily toward the wall, his hand sinking into the space between the wall and the edge of the bed and resurfaces with a small plastic bottle. He crawls up behind me, his back pressed against mine. It's a warm solidity that keeps me in place. I feel like I can breathe again.

The press of his nose into the hair behind my ear is a comfort.

“If you say stop, we’ll stop. No questions. Tell me if anything doesn’t feel good.” I hear the click of a bottle cap and a slick sound, feeling the muscles of his arm moving behind me.

“Yeah.”

“Spread your legs a bit, sweetheart,” he whispers into my neck and I swallow nervously, lifting my leg a bit off the other. “Good,” he breathes and I shiver both at the word and the slick feeling of hardness sliding between my thighs.

I moan.

“Good?” he asks, breath fanning warm across my ear.

“Y-yeah,” I manage.

“Nnnn,” he sighs, body still, cock hard between my legs. His arm reaches around to find my own hardness still stiff and leaking and I buck my hips at the feeling of his fingers around it again. He groans at the motion.

I bite my lip at the feeling of his lips on my neck.

“Okay.”

The word feels like pulling the trigger of a gun but I’m not there to hear the bang because he is moving, thrusting his hips slowly. His cock is sliding hard and wet along all the sensitive skin of my balls and inner thighs and paired with his wide, warm hand moving jerking my cock in firm, steady strokes, it feels  _incredible_.

He moans into my neck, sucking another bruise into the skin. I reach my hand back to twine in his hair, keeping him pressed to my neck. My lips are parted and I don’t have the presence of mind to even try to hold back my sounds as his hands and the rhythm of his hips force a stuttering stream of grunts and moans from me.

“T-that’s it,” he breathes into my neck, dark and possessive and I want to drown in it, “Just let go, sweetheart.”

I am lost in a torrent of nothing but electricity and light against the back of my eyelids and Marco. His hand around my cock, his chest against my back, his lips on my neck, everywhere I can feel, _him him him_ sending me higher and higher and higher.

“M-marco, Marco, Marco.” I realize I’m chanting his name in a breathless pant, my hips bucking against the slide of his cock and the stroke of his hand as he increases tempo. “Marco, _Marco_ -”

“So g-good, Jean, feel so good, sound so hot, you’re amazing, you’re _amazing._ ” His soft nothings reach me like little sparks behind my eyelids.

“Don’t stop, d-don’t stop, Marco, _God-_ ” I’m nearly sobbing now, the sensations tangling together, rising and I can feel that ledge getting closer and closer.

“I won’t stop, baby, I won’t stop. Feel so good. _Nnngh-_ Gonna make you come so hard.” I can’t breathe. I’m panting and shaking and it’s so close, so close, Marco’s hands and hips are pulling me there whimpering his name.

“Marco, _M-Marco_ , s-s-so close, _God_ , I- I- fuck, so good, I can’t t-tak-” I’m stuttering and gasping and I can’t find words through the way my cock is leaking pre-come down his hand and his cock is so _hard_ against me and his teeth are digging into my skin.

“Y-yeah, _yeah,_ ” Marco breathes around the way he’s dragging his teeth along my ear and my back arches. “That’s it, wanna watch you _come apart_.”

I’m so close, _so close_ , and I can’t think, can’t breathe, can only shake and moan and _whine_ under him.

“ _P-ple- haa,_  M- _Marco-_ ”

“So beautiful, so amazing. I’ve got you, sweetheart, I’ve got you. Come on, come for me.”

He sinks his teeth into my neck once more and I am gone. My back arches as I come hard into his hand, my eyes screwing shut.

I curse and gasp his name as I shake and he works me through it, his hand gradually slowing as I start to come down. My chest is heaving, shocks of residual pleasure shooting through me as I try to steady my breathing.

“Shh, just breathe,” Marco murmurs, lips tracing soft against the dull sting of a bite. “You were so good, Jean. So amazing.”

My eyelids are heavy, exhaustion buckling in on the space left by my spent desire like darkness after an extinguished flame.

He scoots back so I can roll onto my back, exhausted.

“T-thank you,” I manage lazily, dazed. “You’re... you're incredible. You de- you deserve the world…”

He doesn’t reply but I feel bed shift under me as he stands up. He laughs at the unhappy groan I make.

“I’m just gonna go get cleaned up and get something for you, okay? Then I’ll be right back and we’ll sleep. You look like you’re gonna pass out.”

“Mhm,” I hum, eyes drifting closed. He laughs lightly and I hear him pad to the bathroom followed by the sound of a sink running.

I must have slipped into sleep momentarily because I blink my eyes open to a warm washcloth on my stomach and leg.

“You must really be tired if you can fall asleep covered in jizz,” Marco jokes quietly and I just hum sleepily.

I am drifting in my head.

_Soft. Safe. Warm._

“All right, sleepyhead, let’s get some shuteye,” I hear him murmur and then climb into bed beside me.

I roll onto my side, still naked, too tired to even think about searching around for my sleep pants, and let Marco curl up behind me. He wraps his arm around my chest over my ribs, and I cover his hand where it falls against my sternum with my own.

_Good. Okay._

I feel Marco press a kiss to the back of my neck.

_Everything’s okay._

 

 

 

I dream again that night.

In it, I am sitting with my knees pulled up to my chest, grass cool and slightly damp beneath me. It is night time, the world around me draped in deep blues and blacks.

The moon hangs full and bright in the sky above me.

Something stirs in the back of my mind at the image.

“ _Back again, little moth?_ ”

A voice. Echoing and warbling as if through viscous fluid, but warm and amused. Familiar.

“What?” I ask, peering around at the empty space around me. Nothing but grass beside me, a line of trees, and in front of me a ways away, a small pond glimmers like a sheen of glass, surface of the water undisturbed.

“ _Are you still looking for a light?_ ” the voice asks me. I look back up to the moon.

“I found one,” I whisper, fingers clenching around strands of grass beneath my hands. “It's so beautiful... but so high up.”

“ _Silly thing,_ ” the voice chuckles, closer to my ear this time, like a soft breath across my skin. “ _To the moon,_ you’re _the one hanging up in the sky_.”

I shake my head sadly.

“It still feels so far away.”

“ _Does it?_ ” the voice asks, warmth sliding along my torso like the sensation of arms wrapping around me from behind. “ _Look at yourself._ ”

I do. My hands are illuminated by the moonlight, my arms, my feet, my legs―they are all bright in the shine of the moon high above me.

“ _You’re shining._ ”

“But I’m not-” I try to protest, looking from my small, trembling hands up to the beauty of the moon dominating the sky above me. “It’s only because of the-”

“ _And how do you think the moon shines?_ ” the voice cuts me off with a soft laugh.

“But I’m not-” I choke, the words sticking in my throat, the bright sphere of the moon in the sky blurring before me. “I’m _not_ -”

“ _Oh,_ _Jean,_ ” the voice sighs. “ _We are_ all _reflected light._ ”

 

 

 

A movement beside me jostles me from my dream but doesn’t fully wake me. I’m conscious enough to register the rustling of blankets and a shift of weight, but then all is still again and I fall back into the thoughtless oblivion of dreamless sleep.

When I surface for real this time, it is the soft rumble of a voice that pulls me into wakefulness and reach out a hand, still dazed and sleepy. But I blearily crack open one eye when my searching hand finds the bed beside me empty.

“Hmm?” My stiff muscles protest as I twist in the sheets, dazedly peering at the empty bed through blurred, squinted eyes.

The voice that had woken me coming from the direction of the sliding glass door. I tilt my head, realizing its Marco’s voice and it must be coming from the balcony.

Once my eyes have begun to adjust to the harsh light filtering through the blinds, I can see his form, outlined in silhouette as he paces back and forth. It looks like he has a hand to his ear.

“-said. And second of all, I told you yesterday I don’t want to leave. I wanna stay in Rose for-”

There’s a crack by the edge of the door where Marco hadn’t closed it completely after he’d stepped out so I can hear his words clearly. I’m wide awake now, stock still in the bed as I watch him pace with what I now realize is a phone pressed to his ear.

“He’s not just _some boy I’m fucking_!” he spits acidly into the phone and ice begins to grow in my stomach. “Jesus, he has a name-”

He’s apparently interrupted since the words cut off abruptly before he starts again.

“I’m not being ungrateful, Levi, I’m just-” Another pause. “And so what? So what if this could “make or break my career”!? That’s for _me_ to decide.”

My breath won’t come. It’s stuck. I’m stuck. Paralyzed. Hanging in space. I can’t think, can’t form thoughts, can only see half formed images of Marco’s eyes softly staring down at me, can only hear as if through water the way he’d told me he didn’t want the world.

“No. I don't care if it's a stupid move. No, I’m not going on tour with you after Player 1. Got it?” Each word is sharp, bitten out with clenched teeth. “I’m staying in Rose.”

_No, no, n-no, no, **no**._

“That’s- _Because_ I’ve gotta start taking my own damn advice.”

_I never thought-_

“Maybe you don’t think there’s shit-all in Rose worth giving up a tour for but you’re not me, Levi. There’s plenty here worth it for me.”  

_I never thought someone would-_

Marco’s silhouette swims before me, the light filtering between the blinds from the morning sun outside sparkling and dancing as if through a kaleidoscope. Something is blurring my vision and dripping hotly down onto my cheeks.

The blackness is a gushing torrent within me, snaking out to fill every inch of me from the tips of my fingers to the ends of my hair, curling around the corners of my vision.

_I can never **let** someone-_

Because, Jesus Christ, he deserves the world.

He deserves _the world._

Not me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [fanfic/podfic blog](http://zoe-bug.tumblr.com/) | [personal](http://xiexiecaptain.tumblr.com/) | [twitter](https://twitter.com/xiexiecaptain)
> 
> As always, feel free to come talk to me or yell at me or ask me questions or whatever your heart desires in whatever dark corner of the internet I reside. And if you tweet or make a post about it, don't hesitate to tag me or the fic. I really love to hear what people thing about CS since it is such a personal story to me. Even the smallest little things make my day!
> 
> Thank you guys so much for your support of this story. It's been absolutely incredible. See you next chapter!


	10. Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They say guilt does things to a person but you can’t imagine what it does to someone who’s convinced that each kind smile and tender word extended to them, they’ve somehow stolen. 
> 
> That it couldn’t possibly be theirs to have. 
> 
> That something like that could never rightfully belong to the kind of people we are.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy guacamole I am _so_ sorry for the long wait!!
> 
> Regardless, the continued support for, comments on, and general love of my boys and this story throughout the past months has just been phenomenal. Thank all of you so much. This story is so personal and dear to me and to hear that it touches so many other people just means the world.
> 
>  **Specific warnings for this chapter:** intense anxiety, panic attacks, very in-depth descriptions of self hate, vague references to self harm, mentions of suicidal ideation, mentions of drug use, drinking/alcohol abuse, and smoking.  
>  If any of these things might be troubling to you please proceed with caution. Your well being is always more important than my fic.
> 
> On a more positive note though, please go check out all the AMAZING fanart people have made for the fic [HERE](http://zoe-bug.tumblr.com/tagged/cutting-shapes-fanart/)
> 
> I also have written another side piece from Marco's POV that I had to wait to post until this chapter went up because it makes more sense after the events of chapter 10. But I'm posting it simultaneously with this chapter. It's called "Mess" and you can read it [HERE](http://zoe-bug.tumblr.com/post/127616496780/mess-a-cutting-shapes-extra-marcos-pov)
> 
> Without further ado, chapter 10!

There is blackness sucking at the edges of my vision. I feel my limbs quivering, my breath coming through my nose in short, terrified huffs.

My eyes snap closed and it feels as if something within me is shutting down.

I’m frozen, stuck, locked in place. _Don’t move._ Something whispers, digging its claws into every part of me as it does so. It seizes my limbs with shackles of ice. _Don’t move don’t move don’t move. Be still be **still.**_

I haven’t felt this in years; this yawning dread at the core of me that I have become so good at keeping at bay, at stepping around, at dodging.

I had created such a carefully laid trail of breadcrumbs. One I’d stuck to so religiously to keep myself safe, to remind me where it was tested and comfortable...

Why had I decided to wander?

Everyone knows what happens to those kids in fairy tales that stray from the path. I was so stupid to forget about the howling wolves that lurk in the forest beyond.

Stupid, stupid, Jean.

Lost in the woods again and now he’s about to be eaten alive.

Sounds filter into my consciousness as if through muffling gauze. The sound of the birds outside chirping in the late morning sunshine. The sound of Marco’s voice, now only a distant buzzing that my mind cannot seem to translate into individual words. The sound of the door sliding shut once more.

Silence.

A hand. Gentle, soft, wide and warm. My chest spasms around air it can’t seem to take in when it slides through my hair. The soft sigh that comes from above makes the blackness ache within me.

“I’m gonna go take a shower, Jean. I’ll be right back.” The words are so soft, so tender that they nearly burn me. They reach me through what feels like two tons of pressure pinning me in place, like the hot breath of some beast breathing down the back of my neck.

Stillness. Quiet.

Nothing but the pounding of my heart and the aching heaving of my chest around the lack of air. I hear the door of the bathroom clicking shut as if from miles away.

And then the pressing, pinning weight that had frozen me in place has evaporated. The voice ordering _be still be still don’t move_ has suddenly grown deafening in my head, the words _run run runrunrun leave run away **away**_ ricocheting around my skull, drowning out all else.

My hands are shaking, my breath punching out of me loudly in a rushing, terrified rhythm. I don’t think. My actions are automatic as icy adrenaline shoots to the tips of my fingers in stinging, prickling jolts.

I have done this before, felt this all before. This mindless terror, this skin-crawling unease has been sleeping inside me this whole time. It’s risen to the surface like a cresting wave so many times before. And now...

I am standing before I decide to, the pain in my ankle a distant pinging like an alarm heard from a neighboring room. I am moving around the room, grabbing and gathering with shaking hands.

Clothes. Phone. iPod. Smokes. Wallet. Keys-

Keys.

A gap in my breadcrumbs.

Fuck. Fuckfuck _fuck._

I whirl around in helpless, thoughtless circles, the colors of the apartment and furniture swirling into shapeless blotches and smears. I’ve never seen this patch of beautiful, gorgeous trees along my path. This isn’t where I’m safe, _get back before you’re swallowed whole, stop crying **stop crying-**_

_Bzzt bzzt._

I pause, my hands cold and almost numb as I try to blink away wetness. Something against my elbow is buzzing.

I glance down, eyes wide and blank, at my phone. Three missed calls. Two new text messages.

 

 **From Reiner (Door Stuff)** : [you around your place? doors finished & i got your key]

 

The next is from two hours later.

 

 **From Reiner (Door Stuff):** [tried calling you but you didn’t pick up. had other stuff to do so i left the key under your doormat. hope thats ok.]

 

I swallow, nodding to myself distantly as I continue to gather my things into my arms with numb fingers. The twinge of my ankle feels like background static, like an annoying jingle on a TV with the volume turned down.

My breath is coming in shallow, rasping gasps that leave me nearly as soon as they enter. My ribcage seems to be aching under the force of my heart beating. I feel like I’m _dying_ , I need to leave, _go go run away **away-!**_

The metal of the door knob slides against my sweat-slick fingers when I try to grasp it but eventually I manage to grab hold of it. Twisting the knob, I step forward and-

I hear a voice.

Hand trembling, I freeze.

The sound slowly pushes its way through the clambering of panic that pings around my skull like ricocheting bullets. It wades through if there were nothing in its path but cobwebs that give way under its gentle pressure.

Marco is singing.

It’s muffled behind walls and the soft hiss of running water, but I can hear him all the same. Low and sweet and warm like the touch of his hand in my hair and _if home had a sound, this would be it-_

My vision starts to blur and my chest is burning. My eyes are shut tight and that pressure is closing around my throat making my eyes are swim and my insides feel near to bursting. My breath is acid in my chest but I can’t let it out, forced to hold it until I am quaking, shivering, my muscles aching as I curl in on myself.

This is worse.

I have felt this burning, aching chaos within me before but not like this. Not with the words “ _make or break my career_ ” echoing in my head. Not with the images of his gorgeous, kind, beautiful hands on my disgusting, awful, pitiful self.

I have felt the pain of being swallowed whole by this beast before, but this... I’ve never know the pain of being torn limb from limb before.

And now I can feel the fabric of myself beginning to _rip._

Tears are welling, breaking free, pouring down my face in hot streams. My teeth grit against a grimace of anguish I can’t find it in me to fight down as I stumble out of the apartment.

The trip up the stairs is a surrealistic whirl of glittering, distorted shapes, my tears warping the staircase like a funhouse mirror. My gasps are choked and stuttered as I let them claim control of my aching lungs. I part climb, part stumble, part pull myself up the last flight of stairs, clothes nearly tumbling out of my arms at several points where my spasming fingers can’t quite seem to keep their grip. I lift my doormat and grab the key waiting there. I see my actions as through a doorway down a long hallway from where I’m standing.

My apartment is dark when I stumble my way in. Locking the door behind me, my sobs and gasps jerk in my chest. I dump my armful of belongings on the floor and collapse onto the carpet of my living room. I can’t stop the way my fingernails dig into my arm at the panging reminder that it’s there’s no bed to climb into here. Winding my hands around my head I sob into my elbows, rolling onto my side.

An anguished, ragged, scream rips its way from my throat every time I manage to lift my head from the curl of my arms still wildly, _stupidly_ , taken off guard when I don’t see a bed against the wall there.

This is my well-worn, safe little stretch of sunlit path. I am safe here. This is my trail of breadcrumbs through the forest and I _hate it._

It looks how I feel: disjointed and fractured and empty and wrong _wrong wrong, aimless, stupid, worthless, why do you **have to RUIN EVERYTHING-!**_

Gasping and choking and sobbing, the lashing words gush forth like water from a dam, slicing and hacking their way through me like knives.

I draw my knees up to my chest and clutch the sides of my head with trembling hands. The world recedes further and further down that long, dark tunnel. It echoes with searing words and images of his hands and I want it to stop stop _stop stop **STOP-!**_

I curl myself into a ball and shake.

 

 

 

 

I find I’m on my back, staring up at paint starting to peel from the corners of my ceiling when the first round of knocking comes.

_Thunk thunkthunk._

“Jean? Jean, are you in there?”

I stare up at the ceiling. At my sides, my hands dig into the carpet.

“Jean, sweethe-” It sounds as if the word chokes him on the way out. “Jean, if you’re in there, say something, please? I need to know you’re okay.”

With unseeing eyes I roll onto my side again, drawing my knees back up to my chest. At the next round of knocking, my hands clamp over my ears.

I can’t _bear_ the desperation in his voice, can’t handle the way his pleading tone sounds around my name. It sounds like the howls of hungry, starving wolves that I can feel now ripping at my body. I press my hands more firmly over my ears against the sound.

“Stop, stop, stop, stop.” I find I’m muttering to myself, chanting under my breath in a cracked, pathetic whisper. “Stop, stop, stop, make it stop.”

_Thunkthunkthunk._

“Jean?”

“Stop, stop, stop-”

“Jean, _please_ say something.”

“Stop, stop, make it _stop_ -!”

“If- if it’s something I did, I’m so, so sorry. Please let me apologize. I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

Anger blooms in the center of my chest; internal, writhing and flailing. It feels like rot, like decay, like _wrong, get it out, you fucking worthless-!_ I can’t _stand_ being in my body. It feels so fucking wrong. There is too much inside this fragile, stupid bag of shivering muscles and it feels like I am burning alive from the inside out.

I want to make it go away.

“Jean?”

I want a _goddamn_ cigarette. A real one. The kind that sears the insides of my lungs with thick, acidic tar and blackness. I want to suffocate this disgusting knot within me from the inside out, want to cauterize my innards in the hope they will stop _bleeding_ like this every time he says my name.

“ _Stop…_ ” The word comes out in a horribly cracked whisper that barely makes it past my lips.

I try to pretend I don’t hear him crying when he finally leaves.

 

 

 

 

It starts raining sometime in what I think is the afternoon. I can’t quite be sure, though. Time stretches past me in halting jumps and dragging scrapes.

The rain patters in a steady rhythm against the roof up here on the third floor and I try my hardest not to think about how the sound of it hissing down outside my window sounds like that of a shower down a hallway I once knew.

I try not to think about much of anything, to be honest.

There is a blankness that comes after a stretch, like a receding tide. The shaking, panicking, racing of my mind ebbs and leaves in its wake a hollow, tired ache.

My head hurts like hell, but I can’t seem to move. I don’t know how long I’ve been laying here on the floor, but I can’t seem to understand why it would matter.

My phone keeps buzzing on and off but I only stare at it blankly on the floor beside me. It’s strewn amidst the clothes and things I’d just dropped there.

_Bzzt bzzt._

_“I like you, Jean. Really, really like you.”_

_Bzzt bzzt._

_“And I think that’s something we both need to work on remembering, huh?”_

“Stop...” I whimper.

I can hear _the_ wolves coming again, the hot, panting breaths and hungry snarls as they circle closer and closer. The quivering in my hands, the shortness in my breath, the tears pricking at my eyes, the _thoughts_ that stab like knives-

_Bzzt bzzt._

_“You’re beautiful...”_

_Bzzt bzzt._

_“I don’t want the world. I just want you.”_

I can’t breathe. “Please, stop.”

The guilt is like burning acid, like gasoline in my veins and I want to set a fucking match to it.

 

 

 

 

I gather up the strength to pick up my phone sometime after the grey light has stopped trickling through my windows. The rain still hisses and patters outside, tinting the blackness with the yellow-green of a rainstorm.

The knocking had come twice more and each time it had set me drowning in the rasp of Marco’s worried voice around my name, had set the wolves gnawing at my limbs and tearing into the marrow of my bones.

The darkness of my apartment had crept up on me as I’d lain there, the shadows slowly encroaching across the floor towards me until my living room was bathed in nighttime.

I have to squint when my phone’s screen blinks on, the brightness searing my eyes for a moment. It makes my head throb dully.

The battery’s nearly dead but the thought of getting up to plug it in is so overwhelming and far away I dismiss it almost instantaneously.

I don’t even open Marco’s text thread. I don’t trust myself.

There was a _reason_ I’d wandered off into the forest, after all. In the depths of those trees, away from my safe, narrow trail live glorious things...

I don’t trust myself, without the terror of face to face contact, to be strong enough after reading them to not reply. I don’t trust myself to not break down trembling and resist type with shaking fingers _“I’m scared and I’m broken and I don’t know what to do please help me.”_

But I notice the others.

Three missed calls. Two from Reiner, and one from...

“Fuck...” I manage to rasp, immediately calling my voicemail. I stare into the darkness of my living room as the robotic voice reads me the message menu. I listen through Reiner’s two voicemails that parrot his texts, and then to the third.

_Beeeeep._

_“Jean? Jean, it’s Eren. God, please pick up, please pick up, I’m desperate.”_

Eren sounds nearly frantic and I know him well enough to pick out the frustrated tears in his voice.

 _“I-It’s Armin. They’re-_ God _...”_ He lets out a shaky breath. _“I don’t know what’s going on. They’ve had rough patches in the past but it’s... not like this. God, I just don’t know what to do, Jean. I-I think it was whatever they took Saturday I-”_ He pauses again, exhaling and inhaling shallowly. _“I’m sorry, I’m just desperate for anyone who could help them out of this. They won’t talk to anyone and y-you talked to them on Saturday. They told me what happened at the store, t-they_ trust _you...”_

My breath is rasping audibly in my throat and my head hurts like _hell._

 _“I’m just so goddamn scared, Jean, they’ve been talking about h-hurting themselves and-”_  His voice sound strangled, the pain in it horrifying, _“-saying they would be b-better off d-dead, and I- I- just-”_

Eren’s crying now, full-on _sobbing_ through my speaker and I feel like I’m falling once more into blackness.

 _“I d-don’t know what I would do without them, G-_ God _, I- ...I love them, Jean. I_ love _them.”_ His voice breaks. _“Please call me back. I need help and I don’t know what to do anymore.”_

_Beeeeep._

_“To replay this message, press 4,”_ comes the cold, robotic voice of the menu system. _“To erase it, press 7. To save it-”_

I press the end call button and bring up a new text message with sluggish fingers.

 

 **From Jean:** [im texting armin rn. are they ok?]

 

_Bzzt bzzt._

Almost immediately my phone lights up once more and I hold it up in front of my face. I see it as if far down that dark tunnel again.

 

 **From Eren:** [oh thank god. yea theyve calmed down a bit since last night but im still freaking out]  
**From Eren** : [they wont let me in the room and i keep hearing them crying]

 

 **From Jean:** [itll be ok man. everythings gonna be fine. have sasha and connie tried talking to them?]

 

 **From Eren:** [yea but it didnt help and i think mikasa would only make it worse]

 

 **From Jean:** [good call]

 

 **From Eren:** [thanks for texting them. im just really desperate]

 

 **From Jean** : [i totally get it. ill try texting them tonight ok?]

 

 **From Eren:** [thank you]  
**From Eren:** [i mean it]  
**From Eren:** [armin means the world to me]

 

 **From Jean:** [ill do whatever i can eren. promise.]

 

The wind picks up outside and I hear the branches of the trees thrashing and creaking under it’s torrential wrath.

As I somehow, miraculously, manage to drag myself to my feet, phone and iPod and smokes in hand, I think I hear the sound of branches outside snapping under a weight they aren’t yet strong enough to bear but I ignore it.

I stand outside the door to my bedroom for far too long. I try not to think about what I want, what I hope, what I _crave_ to find when I open that door. What I can’t let myself.

_I never thought..._

I walk in with my eyes closed.

I turn on my bedside lamp and the glow blurs through the tears filming over my eyes. I keep my head down and slide onto my bed, plugging in my phone, and take a long, stuttering drag of smoke that doesn’t burn as much as I want it to.

 

 **From Jean:** [hey its me. heard you were having a hard time.]  
**From Jean:** [im here if u want an out thats not eren or just wanna talk]

 

I drop my phone to the bed and stare up at my ceiling.

And with an ache in my heart and the sound of branches bending under the storm outside, for the first time in my life listening to music is the last thing I want to do.

I count four hundred and thirty five brush strokes in the paint on my ceiling before I can finally manage to shut my eyes.

 

 

 

 

I wake to the sound of the rain dripping and clattering on the roof above me. It seems like the wind has died down some at least.

The light struggling through my blinds is dull and grey and the inside of my mouth feels like cotton. My stomach growls loudly, clenching painfully as it does so, but I don’t feel hungry at all. The throbbing in my head fades back in full force as soon as I try to roll over, tangling myself in the thin blankets.

I brace myself to play the “how long can I keep myself from thinking about it?” game. The “how long can I walk on these eggshells in my mind?” game. The “how long can I fool myself into thinking I’m okay?” game.

It’s one I’ve become very, very good at. And I hate myself for it.

My phone is blinking in the corner of my eye on my bedside table so I swipe it open.

Something in my chest loosens at the sight of Armin’s name beside the new text. I take a moment to savor the feeling. And then hate myself for that too.

_Selfish... selfish..._

The whispers start, slithering into the back of my mind. I squeeze my eyes shut and listen to the rain for a moment, breathing deeply through my nose, before I open the text.

 

 **From Armin:** [im ok. sorry i worried you]

 

I know those words though. Can hear the depths beneath their calm surface. The myriad of _I’m sorry I worried you, I’m not worth it_ s. I lick my cracked lips and with tremendous effort try to will my sluggish brain to begin arranging words into a suitable order to reply with. There is a heavy layered quilt draped over my brain and everything in me feels made of lead.

But my phone buzzes once more before I even can start to type.

 

 **From Armin:** [could i maybe talk to you tomorrow?]

 

 **From Jean:** [yeah of course]

 

 **From Armin:** [would in person be okay?]

 

I stare at the words. Oh God, oh _God_. Outside my apartment seems to fester like a great gaping maw in my thoughts, looming with terrifying, dizzying swirls. My throat tightens at the thought of getting on a bus.

My heart seems to stop at the mere thought of opening my door.

My breath wheezes when I inhale.

 

 **From Jean:** [tomorrow?]

 

 **From Armin:** [yeah. if thats ok. im just not doin so hot]  
**From Armin:** [and i dont wanna talk to eren rn]

 

 **From Jean:** [i get you]

 

I swallow.

 

 **From Jean:** [ill text you tomorrow to let you know. that ok?]

 

 **From Armin:** [sure]  
**From Armin:** [thank you jean]

 

I lay in bed and stare at the ceiling for hours.

I try to keep my mind as blank as possible but even through the sluggish blankness of this heaviness the thoughts still come. They still push their way through the mire of my drooping eyes and lead-weighted limbs and find enough ways of saying I’m worthless to fill hours.

They weave and curve and circle back around and I’d forgotten how much I could cry.

 

 **From Jean:** [im gonna see armin tomorrow  & talk to them]

 

 **From Eren:** [omg thank you so so much thank you]

 

I watch the sun pass across my bedroom slowly and I start counting things again. Paint strokes in the ceiling, CDs on my shelf, lines on my palm, how many times Marco smiled at me-

I squeeze my eyes shut as if that will do anything at all.

Everything I try to keep it all at bay seems to crumple like paper against the torrential force. It keeps cutting straight through, sliding beneath my mental door and suddenly I’m wailing into the comforter again.

My muscles ache from the on-and-off shaking, my head is throbbing from the force of my sobs and I can’t remember the last time I ate anything. Everything hurts and the back of my eyelids are black and red and I want everything to go away.

_Make it stop, make it stop, make it- make-_

“Make-” I realize I’m gasping the words out loud and they sound pitiful. “Mak-... Ma- M-M-” Cracking and high and snotty and lost-sounding, the words tremble like the hands tangled in my hair. “Ma- M- _M-Marco-!_ ”

It feels like I’m being ripped in two from the inside; something clawing its way out of me with nails and teeth.

“ _M-Marco, G-G-God, I’m s-so s-s-sorry, f-fuck, I-_ ” My teeth chatter against the words, throat sore against the tension of sobs and words ripping out of it and my hands are shaking _so violently_.

His name is at once honey and acid in my mouth.

I am _consumed_ by it: this guilt, this self-hatred, this _wrongness_.

I hate every fiber of my being. Every strand of hair, every cell of skin, every cursed beat of my stupid, _selfish_ heart that loves him, _loves him, fucking **loves** him-_

...every stupid, selfish bit of me that could think I am worthy of being loved back.

 

 

 

 

 **From Sasha:** [hey jean! hadnt heard from ya! checkin to see if you still wanna go out w us tomorrow night! in case ya might be too busy ;) ;) ;)]

 

 **From Jean:** [idk sasha]

 

 **From Sasha:** [...you ok?]

 

 **From Jean** : [fine. ill let you know]

 

 **From Sasha:** [...ok. lemme know if you need anything]  
**From Sasha:** [love you jean]

 

 

 

 

 **MARCO**  
_13 unread messages_

 

 

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It takes me two hours to get dressed.

The Friday afternoon sun slants through my window in bright streams that make my eyes water. I stare at it with dull eyes when even pulling a shirt over my head brings me to the point of such exhaustion I have to stop and just breathe before reaching for my jeans.

My hands and mind move as if I’m encased in molasses: sluggishly and with exhausting resistance. Mud seems to suck at my feet with every step I take.

I slide sunglasses on to my face in the hope that maybe they’ll hide how red my eyes are. How dark the circles beneath them are. How dull and glassy they look.

I’d noticed that much in the second and a half glance into the mirror I’d managed to catch before I had to turn away at the feeling of a sob bubbling into my chest.

The slight ache and occasional shooting pains in my ankle as I hobble toward the door are almost welcome. Distracting. It draws my mind downwards to my feet instead of to the quickening of my heart and constricting of my throat when I open my door.

I don’t stop on the second floor landing. I don’t look. I don’t think I even breathe.

Making it to the bus stop is a miracle.

I keep my headphones in my ears but can’t bring myself to play anything. I feel so fucking _fragile_. I am so close to breaking apart again. So, _so_ close to my knees buckling beneath me and gasps being wrenched from my strangled chest and trembling hands grasping at my hair. Like the slightest touch, the faintest smell, the softest sound could send me shattering.

God, I’d forgotten what it was like to try and go through life this way―had forgotten what it was to tread a world where the very air you breathe is acid; the pure _torture_ of trying to walk with steady strides and utter “I’m fine”s that don’t shake and pretend you aren’t burning alive.

Everything is too close and too loud and too bright. Every smile I catch, every snippet of laughter _aches_ with such intensity that it takes everything in my power to keep from doubling over on the bus into town.

It starts raining again when I turn the corner past the bus stop, a slowly building drizzle that begins to patter down on the sidewalk and buildings and cars flying by with a hiss of wet concrete.

By the time my trembling hand opens the door to the little cafe I feel like I’ve been worked over with a cheese grater. My nerves are jumping at every noise, every clink of glass, every bark of laughter. I’m wet and I’m cold and I’m shaking for so many reasons I can’t even think straight. My stomach is roiling with nausea and it’s so bright in here and it hurts.

Armin is at the very back corner booth where the direct light of the lamps doesn’t seem to reach. As I hobble closer I notice their bangs hang partially dried, frizzing with humidity over their eyes.

They look up at the sound of my approach and the sheer effort it seem to take for them twitch up one corner of their lips into a horrifyingly hollow imitation of a smile makes my breath stick in my throat.

“Hey,” Armin greets and it _rasps_ in the way voices do after days of disuse or crying.

I slide into the booth opposite them and try not to stare at the pale near-translucence of their skin. Or at their sunken eyes or the faint crescent scabs along their temple in the shape of nails that they seem to be trying to cover with their half-damp hair. I barely notice the way the throbbing in my ankle eases the minute I’m not putting weight on it.

“Hi,” I reply. It sounds sticky and hollow and I need to do better _I need to do better._

“Thanks for coming.” Armin’s voice is soft and still grates on the way out. Their shoulders seem to be trying to curl inwards, hunched forward and down. Not that I’m not pushing back against the urge to do the same.

“Of course.” Better. Armin’s dull eyes roam sluggishly over my face for a moment.

“Are you okay?”

_Come on, come on._

“I’m fine.” Claws sink into the tender flesh of my lungs, of my heart, jaggedly sliding through the spaces between my ribs and I feel a dull, sick pride at the fact that I don’t think it even showed.

“No you’re not,” Armin says with a rueful shadow of a smile. “You look like me.”

My eyes squeeze shut. I was going to do better.

I bite my lip and feel my chest start to vibrate against the breath I’m holding because if I let it out it will pull with it tears and the shattered shards of me piercing through the surface.

“Sorry,” I bite out. “Thought I could come talk without showing how much of a mess I am.”

Armin’s lips look cracked and chapped and they lick them slowly.

“You can go home if you want.” The words _grate_ across my heart. Outside the rain is now pouring down in thundering sheets.

“No, I’m worried about you.” _You can do better. Be better for them._ “I’m here to talk because you asked me.”

“I’m sorry.” They’re less words and more an involuntary reflex like a gasp or a scream, like some deeply ingrained reaction that comes before thought. And it breaks my heart because I feel the same words pulling at my own lips.

_I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry._

Like reaching hands, the words are. Apologies line the air around us like railings or safety lines. When you can no longer stand and the world is falling from your feet the apologies come like your last ditch effort. The only thing you have left.

I know I won’t be able to speak the words “It’s okay” without crying.

I’m not doing better at all.

“Don’t apologize. Tell me what’s up.” It’s the best I can manage and my face aches when I try to smile at them. I hope it doesn’t look as sad as theirs had but I wouldn’t put money on it.

“How much did Eren tell you?” Armin mutters after a moment of consideration.

“That... you didn’t go home with them on Saturday and that things were bad. And he was worried about you.” _And that he loved you._

Armin nods slowly teeth worrying at their lip, hands fidgeting beneath the tabletop, their eyes are fixed on its pattern. They take in a long, shaky breath as if bracing themself.

“Yeah. Saturday was... Saturday was rough.” They nod slowly, not lifting their eyes to me. “Eren and I were off dancing on our own and it was just... It’s hard to be around Eren when I’m not doing well. Especially after everything last week.”

“Why?” I ask. “Eren’s your best friend.” The bitter smile that twists their lips is _heartbreaking._

“I know he’s in love with me, Jean, I’m not stupid.”

I swallow.

“Y-you do?”

“Of course I do.” The reply is nearly a scoff. “I’ve known since I was sixteen. Eren’s a lot of things but subtle isn’t one of them.”

I remember the soft glow in Eren’s wide eyes, the faint smile on his lips, the defensive pride to his stance. It’s familiar in a way that aches like a weight on my shoulders and I try _so_ hard not to think about the last place I’d seen that.

“What happened?” I ask and Armin swallows visibly, bangs falling into their eyes and their lips tremble where they’re pressed together.

“He... he told me. Saturday night.”

In the silence between us I hear the clatter of dishes in the back kitchen, the grating scrape of forks on plates, and I can’t tear my eyes away from them and the way they look as if they’re breaking.

“He what?”

“I don’t think he meant to. It sounded like he blurted it out on accident. I... I ran.” The words are so _achingly_ fragile, so horribly unbalanced that one press could send Armin careening off one way or the other. “I couldn’t handle it.”

I don’t understand. I’ve seen the way Armin’s eyes glance from Eren to their shoes with soft, affectionate smiles. I’ve see the way their shoulders relax with weight lifted off when Eren takes their hand. It doesn’t makes sense.

“I don’t-” I start, thoughts struggling to form connections in the murky clouds in my mind. “I don’t understand. Do you... I mean, I thought...”

“That I loved him back?” Armin asks, the bitter incredulity in their voice almost painful. “Of _course_ I love him back!” Armin cries, hands banging onto the table with enough force to make it rattle. The words sound as if they’ve been dragged over a bed of nails to reach Armin’s mouth by the amount of pain the exclamation holds. They take in a shuddering, hiccuped little breath, slumping back into the booth seat and letting out a tiny choked-off sob. “I love Eren more than I could ever say.”

“They why-?”

“Because I can’t stand seeing him care so much about me.” Armin’s voice is quiet, one arm reaching up to grasp around their opposite arm, knuckles white. “Because I don’t _deserve_ it.”

“What?” My hand shakes against my knee. A familiar burn is creeping up along my spine and through my stomach.

“Eren is- Eren-” Their words stutter out as if they can’t seem to get past the way Eren’s name passes over their lips. “ _Eren’s-_ ”

“It’s okay.”

They gulp in another breath before tilting their head back to the ceiling, lip trembling.

“Eren is the most amazing person I’ve ever met. He’s brave and kind a-and so _strong_. He works so _hard_ for the things he wants, I’ve always admired that. He goes after them with so much fire and I’m... I’m not one of those people, Jean. I’m just not. I’m broken and weak a-and...” They break off, finally meeting my eyes and, _Christ_ , the ghosts I see swimming behind them are terrifying. The next words come out cracking as tears begin to slide down Armin’s cheeks. “I couldn’t live with myself if I dragged him down.”

“Oh, Armin,” I start because I know this feeling, have it living and breathing inside my chest, have it vibrating through my fingertips.

“Jean?” Armin looks at me with eyes so full of pain and hopelessness and shining bright with wetness. Their voice sounds like something splintering. “Do you know what it’s like to feel like every day it gets harder and harder to convince yourself you’re worth it?”

I try so hard to swallow but there’s something stuck in my throat. Something thick and tacky like tar or self-loathing. My hands are clenched into fists atop my knees and that dull throbbing ache at the center of me is back, unfurling like a stretching shadow within me.

I return their gaze trying so _hard_ not to cry but when I reply my voice sounds just as brittle despite everything.

“Yeah. I do.”

They blink rapidly, eyes lowering to the wall beside us, letting out a soft sob.

“How do you _stand_ it?” Everything about Armin is so small right now. Curled in on themself, voice trembling, it makes my heart ache.

But I can’t make it better. I can’t. I can’t do anything because those demons I see swimming behind Armin’s wide eyes are ones I recognize with a nauseous twist of my gut.

“I don’t,” I manage and I don’t think I’d ever realized how disgustingly unfair the world was until this moment.

“It _hurt_ ,” they continue softly still curled in on themself, “when he s-said it. Like someone was squeezing the life o-out of me a-and I... I just _couldn’t_.”

“What happened?” I want so badly to reach out my hand to them, to cover their pale fingers with my own.

“I don’t really remember how I got there but I ended up out in the alley behind the club just... crying. Wishing that...” They trail off and take in a steadying breath. “There was this girl there. She talked to me for a bit. Said her name was Annie and that she had something that could make me feel better.”

Ice seems to creep outwards from my chest.

“And it’s not something I'd normally do but I was so... just so desperate to make it go away. Something called molly, I guess it was.” They’re eyes are pointedly averted as they continue. “Everything got kinda... close and looked really pretty. And slow, like I was walking through water. I felt so good, Jean, like nothing could ever be wrong in the world. I remember the girl―Annie―she came and found me again later. But she was with Reiner―oh, uh this blonde guy―and his boyfriend... Bert I think his name was?”

_“I saw you with that blonde kid on Saturday.”_

My eyes widen.

“They were arguing but I don’t remember what about. It didn’t really seem important at the time. He asked me a lot of questions, I think. Seemed really worried about me and I ended up at their house. When I came down he said he wanted to make sure I was okay. That was Sunday morning. He took me back to the dorms and I slept forever. When I woke up I...”

They trail off, shaking their head.

“I haven’t felt this bad in a long time. Scary bad.” They finally glance up to me and way their voice had trembled around the word _scary_ is all I can think about when I see the hollow, aching sadness there. “I can’t talk to Eren right now. I can’t. I just want to not think about it again, you know? I just want to feel okay.”

“I’m sorry,” is all I can say.

How freely the words come for people like us. For people like Armin and me who have found others that are fire and are light. For people like us who can feel the shadows swirling beneath our skin and are rubbed raw by the way life has made us until there is nothing we can give but apologies.

We’re sorry for so many things, people like Armin and me. Sorry for the ways we fold and collapse under weight like soaked cardboard. Sorry for any ways people catch us, prop us up, support us, help us stand. Sorry for gentle touches and soothing words and kindness. Sorry for the way we take up space, take up time, take up _anything._

And we’re sorry for saying “I’m sorry.” For saying it over and over and over. For being left with nothing else. And then for saying it yet again when there is nothing in us anymore but regret and apologies and guilt.

We’re sorry for the hopelessness people like us find when we’re sorry until we’re empty from it and then we’re sorry for that too.

And that kind of hopelessness makes people like us desperate.

I don’t think people who have never felt so sorry they’re empty with a scorching ache can understand why people like us do some of the things we do. Why we do reckless, stupid, desperate things.

They say guilt does things to a person but you can’t imagine what it does to someone who’s convinced that each kind smile and tender word extended to them, they’ve somehow stolen. That it couldn’t possibly be theirs to have. That something like that could never rightfully belong to the kind of people we are.

Which is why I don’t blame Armin at all. Which is why all I can say is “I’m sorry.”

Because it’s the same reason that the next words come to my lips ragged and rushed like a desperate gasp of someone drowning.

“Do you have any left?”

Armin’s eyebrows furrow.

“What?”

“Of- of the stuff you took,” I clarify. Armin looks down at their hands.

“Oh, uh, yeah, actually. I was gonna go out tonight. Reiner and Bert and Annie invited me. Try to forget about everything, you know?”

I nod, feeling the lump in my throat growing thick. Because that would have been my escape too. Music always has been. To dance and feel for once in my _goddamn_ life like I wasn’t falling apart...

But now that too only feels like shattered glass piercing through my torso when I think of it. Of the bright lights and soaring sounds and electric gaze that made me feel like I was something worth being looked at.

I feel trapped. Cornered. And somewhere in the back of my mind I know that I’ve never made good decisions with walls closing in around me but I can’t help myself.

“Do you,” my voice sounds so raw and pathetic, “think I would like it?”

“Molly?” Armin asks, surprise flickering across their face. I shrug. “Yeah, I mean, it just makes you feel really, really good while you’re on it.” I worry my lip between my teeth, unable to meet Armin’s gaze but I can feel their eyes roaming over my faces, studying me. “You can have some if you want.”

“Huh?”

“Since I’m gonna see Annie again tonight, if I want more I can get some. You can have it if you want it.”

 _Dangerous,_ a voice inside me urges and I clamp my eyes shut at the familiar tone it takes, _don’t do this._

But it feels like light. Like air. Like the walls receding.

And that temptation is far too much for me to resist. Like resisting the urge to claw upwards if you were buried alive. Utterly impossible.

“Something’s... really wrong isn’t it, Jean?” Armin asks and I close my eyes at the words. I just nod, not trusting myself to speak. “I’m sorry I bothered you with my problems when you’re dealing with your own.”

I shake my head, trying to steel myself against the sinking feeling that’s tugging at my insides.

It’s so _easy_ , falling apart like this. Like playing cards sliding rapidly from the top of a deck one after another and watching them float haphazardly to the floor around you.

“No, Armin, _I’m_ sorry. That I couldn’t help you more.”

Here we are, sitting in the darkest corner of the cafe, two people with shadows behind our eyes who can do nothing but apologize. Even to each other.

“You did help.” They state softly studying the tabletop for a moment before turning to the backpack resting in the booth beside them, leaning against the inside wall. “I, uh, actually brought it with me.” They say, rummaging through one of the pockets. “Didn’t want Eren to find it while I was gone or something.”

Finally, they pause, look around to make sure no one is actively staring at us, before a small Altoids tin rattles as they slide it across the table to me.

My fingers come to rest on it gently, tracing the letters a little tentatively as I stare at it with wide eyes.

“Thanks, Armin.”

“Of course,” they say, nodding, eyes staring at the tin but not seeming to really see it. “If you wanna come out tonight with us, text me.”

The rueful smile I give burns so fiercely that I have to fight back tears at it.

“I don’t think that’s gonna happen,” I manage, slipping the tin deep into the front pocket of my jeans. I hear the barely-there high rattle of its contents as I do so.

Armin takes a moment to reply.

“Is it cause of that DJ? Marco, right?”

I have to squeeze my eyes shut and breathe deliberately for a moment because the mention of him takes me so off guard it nearly wrecks me. I’d scooped myself back up into a neat, organized pile and suddenly... _whoosh_... there I go. Scattered like a deck of cards, like dead autumn leaves floating to the ground. The sound of his name rushes through me with all the destructive force of a tsunami wave and it takes everything I have to hold myself together for a moment.

“I-” I take in a sharp exhale through my nose. “I really don’t... wanna talk about it.”

“...Sorry.”

Apologies strewn about us like a deck of cards. People like us, we leave them behind us like a trail of breadcrumbs.

I shake my head.

“Thanks for these, Armin. And I’m glad I could help even a little.” Armin nods. “I’m gonna head home now, though, I think. Don’t... feel too good.”

“Sure,” Armin replies, giving me that heart-wrenching smile once more. “Take care of yourself, Jean. Talk to you soon.”

“Yeah,” is all I can say.

Because trying to tell them “okay” without shattering into pieces is something I can’t even consider attempting.

When I hobble out of the cafe and back out into the drizzle and clouds the same color as the puddle-ridden sidewalk outside, I can’t help but look back in through the rain-streaked glass. I can almost see Armin returning their solitary game of fifty-two pick up with the scattered pieces of themself at that darkened booth in the corner as I start home to do just the same.

 

 

 

 **From Jean:** [just talked to armin for a bit]

 

 **From Eren:** [omg ty so much jean. are they ok??]

 

 **From Jean:** [theyre pretty ok. think they just need a little space]

 

 **From Eren:** [thank you. rlly]

 

 **From Jean:** [np]

 

 **From Eren:** [just hate seeing them hurting]

 **From Eren:** [always hard to see someone you care about like that i guess]

 

 

 

 

The convenience store I pass on the way back to the bus stop is small but it still carries booze. And cigarettes.

They sure have gotten damn expensive in the eight months since I stopped.

I buy a lighter, four packs of Camel 99s and two bottles of rum because apparently I hate myself more than even I could have anticipated. I don’t look the cashier in the eyes when I ask her to grab the cigarettes. The smell good. Like tobacco and rich darkness and burning.

The world feels like it’s made of quicksand as I exit the store and limp my way back to the bus stop. Like every step I take is slowly sucking me further downwards and soon enough I’ll be swallowed up.

I put my silent headphones back into my ears as the rain patters down onto the sidewalk and rumbles onto the plexiglass overhead of the bus stop. Staring up into the gray clouds overhead, there’s no sign of the sun to be found anywhere in sight.

 

 

 

 

It’s still raining when the knocking comes again early that evening.

I can still hear it’s distant background roar as it hammers down on the building roof above me.

Sprawled on the couch in the living room, I watch the smoke swirl above me in slow, winding rivulets. My feet are propped on the chair I’d left by the couch after I’d climb on it to remove the batteries from the smoke detector.

A remaining quarter of a bottle of rum sits on the floor beside one already empty Camel’s pack. My chest burns and I revel in it through the soft haze of drunkenness.

The crying comes in random bouts that cycle through soft, silent tears sliding down my face, to choked sobs, to full out wailing into the couch cushions, to empty apathy. Rinse and repeat.

I get a text from Armin asking again if I wanted to go out. The laugh that bubbles up through my throat, raw from all the smoke I’m not used to anymore, is a cracked, despairing noise and I turn them down with a reply before chucking my phone across the room. It clatters to the floor somewhere beside my refrigerator.

Throughout the evening I hear it buzzing on and off but when I try to stand up to retrieve and turn it off, the room swims before my eyes so I quickly fall back onto the couch, put my cigarette to my lips, and wait for the battery to run down.

When the knocking comes again I have the Altoids tin open on the couch beside me. With dull, unseeing eyes, I stare upwards at one of the small, off-white tablets I'm holding up against the light, rolling it absently between my thumb and forefinger.

I lower my hand and take a swig of rum that doesn't burn as much as did a few hours ago. Or as much as I wish it would.

“Jean?”

I almost lose the ability to swallow my mouthful of rum at the way his voice makes my throat tighten. I squeeze my eyes shut and take a deep drag off my cigarette and try to focus on the way the tang coats the back of my tongue, the way it burns deep in the center of my chest instead of on how something in me surges at the sound.

“I- I-I’m worried about you, Jean. Please.”

The shattered pieces inside me ache for him, reaching outwards toward the door and they slice through me painfully as they do so. His voice hurts to hear. Hurts so _goddamn_ much.

“I’ve been out of my mind all day. I just need to know you’re okay. Jean, _p_ _lease_.”

I just take another drag off my cigarette and another swig of rum and watch the smoke swirl like my vision. My mouth is dry, my lips cracked, and I realize it’s because I’m wordlessly mouthing “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry” over and over again.

" _Please_ tell me you're okay. Look, I l-"

His voice cracking around the words as they break off hurts me more than any sound I've heard in my entire life.

I hadn’t even noticed I’d started crying again.

He leaves again eventually. It is Friday night, after all. He has work. Has to go spin an intricate web of colors and sounds and feelings that will make someone other than me feel whole. As he should.

Because I can't begin to understand why someone like him could look at someone like me and find anything to stay for. Because I am one of those people who has darkness in my head that doesn’t go away and that seeps outward into everything I touch. Because I am toxic as well as fragile.

Because he is beautiful and he is sweet and I can't bear to steal kindness from him any longer.

Because I am flimsy like cardboard and he deserves the someone who doesn’t crumple inwards on themselves when it rains. Someone who doesn't scatter as easily and into as many pieces as a deck of cards.

Because he deserves the world and I deserve anything but.

 

 

I don’t dream that night. Of moths or ponds or light or anything else. I just pass out on the couch beside empty rum bottles and cigarette packs in the quietness of my living room.

An empty apartment full of empty bottles and empty boxes and empty dreams.

Such a disgustingly perfect place for an empty boy that aches with nothing but apologies and guilt.

And for the heart that lives within him: still stupidly, traitorously _full_ of selfishness and of love for something he could never possibly deserve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [fanfic/podfic blog](http://zoe-bug.tumblr.com/) | [personal](http://xiexiecaptain.tumblr.com/) | [twitter](https://twitter.com/xiexiecaptain)
> 
> Let me know what you thought! Hopefully I won't take _as_ long this time before the next chapter. Eep!  
>  But as always, you're welcome to come to any of the places I lurk about and yell at or talk to me about the fic.  
> (Or if you need a little post chapter group therapy session since this one was a pretty heavy. We can all cry together.)


	11. Blackout

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marco freezes, his mouth halfway open.
> 
> I am horrified and terrified and I love him so much my chest _aches_ with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finished this chapter as a break from finals hell :')
> 
> Again, thank you so much to all of you who read, comment on, & over all support this story. It really means the world to me. As someone who wants to be a writer those sentiments really keep me going when I feel dejected. So thank you so, so, so much.
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: (unhealthy) drug use, self hate, and mentions of smoking & self-harm
> 
> Please check out all the amazing [fanart](http://zoe-bug.tumblr.com/tagged/cutting-shapes-fanart/) people have done for the fic.  
> Also if you're interested, [here](http://archiveofourown.org/series/327839) is the ongoing collection of side pieces I've written for CS.
> 
> SONG LIST:  
> 1.["A Thing Called Love" - Above & Beyond feat. Richard Bedford (Burning Bridges Mix)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eVJ7HXU0L38)  
>   
> 2\. ["Sun & Moon" - Above & Beyond feat. Richard Bedford (Eric Farias Remix)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Oc3Mtwdk2as)  
>   
> Please enjoy! I promise the badness won't stick around forever!

“Mhm,” I reply lazily into the phone and watch the last streaks of late afternoon sun slice between the blinds and into my living room. Like diagonal pillars of light through which dust floats like glitter in a lava lamp. I’m fascinated. Entranced. Barely paying attention when Armin replies.

“You’re sounding much better than yesterday, by the way. I’m glad.”

It’s true. I am doing better. My head feels like those slices of sunlight: warm and glowing and things are softly and weightlessly floating through them. Like the way the music drifts lazily through the room from speakers. I feel it like threads or pulses in the air as I eye the small Altoids tin I’d left there hours before.

“You helped a lot,” I admit, sitting upright on the couch.

“Glad to hear it. I mean, like I said Annie texted me again. Invited me to go out with her and Reiner and Bertholdt.” They laugh. “Guess they took a liking to me.”

“Well, who wouldn’t?”

“I-I mean, I had to explain the pronoun thing a few times―I still don't think Annie gets it entirely―but..." They trail off, the volume of their words dropping momentarily to a soft, hesitant murmur. "But like I was saying, you’re welcome to go out with us if you don’t want to go with the regular crew. Y’know. With everything going on.”

There’s an itching that comes at the corners of my mind. Like some heavy, tattered thing scraping along inside it. But the feeling of floating and sunlight is too beautiful to make me want to do anything but push that away. So I do. I don’t think about him. I don’t think about his face or his eyes or his hands or his kind, _kind_ smile.

“If they’re okay with it. I wanna dance. Been too long.”

It’s Saturday and my foot barely twinges with my full weight on it. And since around two this afternoon when the shadows had come whispering and clouding out my vision, when I’d staggered to the couch with a pounding headache and wet cheeks and placed a bitter pill in my mouth and swallowed… After that, all I’d wanted was to dance.

“I think it’ll be good for you to go out.” I hear Armin say. “I’ll let them know, yeah?”

“Sounds good,” I say, then begin to fiddle with the bracelet on my left wrist. “Thanks for being such a good friend, by the way. I know we haven’t known each other that long but…” I search for the words among the drifting dust, “but you get it and I appreciate it. Thanks.”

There’s a pause on the other end of the phone and I roll one of the beads between my fingers.

“My pleasure. You know, I think-” They cut themself off, “Nevermind. I’ll tell you another time. I’ll see you tonight, Jean.”

There’s a click and the call ends. I put the phone down on the table and once again I’m left to myself and my drifting.

And that scraping.

But, God, I don’t want to acknowledge it. Not when I know that if it grows it will bring with it the howling of wolves and creeping blackness and memories of his hands and I don’t want to feel that way.

My phone is blinking softly at the edge of my vision with unread text messages.

 

 **From Sasha:** [hey sugarpop! just checkin in on u! just a lil worried since idk if ive ever not heard from u for this long]

 **From Sasha:** [anyway just txt me when u get a chance & lemme know if u wanna go out tonight w me & connie <3]

 

 

 **From Eren:** [armin looked a lot better today thanks for talking to them. whatever you said looks like it helped a little]

 

 

 **From Unknown Number:** 1/3 [Jean, this is the last message I’ll send if thats what you want. Im sorry if Ive been bothering you. I dont know if you leaving so suddenly was cus of something I did but if so Im so so sorry. The last thing I want is to cause you any pain. I must have missed something along the way between us because all Ive been doing since wed morning is going over & over every little thing. I cant possibly know whats going on on your side and don't...]

 **From Unknown Number** : 2/3 (cont.) [assume to. All I know is this. I care about you more that a few weeks of knowing each other should probably warrant. When Im with you I feel important & talented & kind. You make me feel like the world is a better place with me in it. Regardless of how you feel I just wanted you to know how important that was to me. I know everyone has their own demons to fight & no matter how much you try not to show yours I can tell they hurt you sometimes. I only want you to know how worth it I think you are. How insightful. How...]

 **From Unknown Number:** 3/3 (cont.) [deceptively but deeply kind. Im sorry for how long & personal this message is. Like I said if you want me to leave you alone completely I will. The only thing I ask is that you let me know youre okay. Im still not past the ‘caring an awful lot about you’ part. But if you ever need to talk Im always here for you just a floor down. -Marco]

 

The scraping feels sharper now. Like there’s edges. Like claws.

And I can’t do it. I _can’t_.

So I open the tin and grab another tablet and squeeze my eyes shut as the bitter taste splashes across my tongue and I swallow away my darkness for another stretch. Patchwork handfuls of hours like bandages over a wound that needs stitches.

I lay back and wait for another surge of artificial sunlight to roll across me like a wave and try not to think about how different it feels from other kinds I’ve known.

 

 

 

 

“Someone looks like he’s feeling good.” Someone is laughing and it feels like a liquid curling around my ears, warm and syrupy. My eyes slowly refocus, turning away from the mesmerizing neon smears streaking past outside the car window.

In the front seat, Reiner meets my eyes in the rearview mirror, smiling.

“Mmm, yeah,” I manage and a laugh of my own bubbles up through my chest like a wave. A wave is a good way to say it, I think distantly. Like little pulses or seeping spreads of warmth and excitement and _good_.

“Well, it’s his first time, Reiner. He’s probably on cloud nine. Still waiting for mine to kick in.” Beside me, Armin’s golden hair glimmers in the passing streetlights as they brush it away from their eyes, sleeve of bracelets knocking musically against the thick band of a red bracelet. His eyes seem incredibly huge and the most shocking, intriguing shade of blue.

“Armin, you have really pretty eyes,” I murmur. Distantly, the thought that my comment might sound strange, drifting like a floating leaf, is gone as soon as it came. Armin’s answering laugh is beautiful. “No wonder Eren’s in love with you.”

Even the way his lips part in surprise and his eyebrows lift into a pained twist is beautiful right now.

It’s Saturday night and I feel _incredible_. The heavy burning ache that had been eating away at my limbs when I’d woken this morning feels centuries away. The hopelessness and the heaviness and the aching head and aching heart feel that way too. Even the hour spent sitting in the ringing silence of my living room staring at tiny white tablets and feeling my weakness slowly fill me feels like another life.

Because now I want to dance. I want to move and see and feel. The urge to touch things has been overwhelming ever since Reiner, Berholdt, and Armin had shown up at my apartment complex to pick me up. By that time, after spending an unmeasurable stretch of afternoon and evening with music blaring from headphones and watching my hands move with wonder while I danced in my living room, the glow and shine of the world had started to fade.

I can still feel it there, at the back of my consciousness, like an movement out of the corner of my eye. I can tell I’m trying to push it away without acknowledging it in the first place. The fear, I mean. The dread. The scraping that means the slowly seeping empty scorching pain is trying to burrow its way back to me.

But for now the world is still warm and close and shining like the night's sky has descended and been superimposed over my surroundings. Everything is bright and awe inspiring and I try to garble the words that the voice at the back of my head keeps trying to articulate: _this is temporary_ ; _t_ _his can’t last forever._

“What’s with all this traffic right here?” I hear Bertholdt ask as I absently grab Armin’s hand and start toying with his colorful bracelets.

“Looks like… I think this exit’s blocked off?” Reiner replies. I turn my head to the side and the brake lights of the line of cars ahead of us look like a shimmering waterfall of rubies in candlelight. “Shit, that means Klorva might be off the docket tonight.”

“Hmm…” Bertholdt muses. “Should I call Annie and let her know? She can meet us at... What's closest besides Klorva?"

"Karanese, right?" Reiner replies, glancing over his shoulder before changing lanes. "We can go there, sure. And, yeah, I'd say text Annie."

I’m transfixed by the patterns of beads in Armin’s bracelets and the undulations of his voice as he says something to me about drinking water but the words slip away like sand through fingers.

“You two okay with that?” Reiner asks.

“What?” I can tell by Armin’s dilated pupils and contented smile that he’s feeling the molly he took by now. “Yeah, sure, I’m cool with whatever.” Bertholdt laughs.

“Mmm.” I just murmur my ascent because everything is warm and bright and it feels like nothing could possibly go wrong. We’re going to go dance and Armin is smiling and Karanese has good music because Marco plays Saturdays.

The scraping in the back of my head starts once again but I push it back. I never want this to end. Instead, I concentrate on the comforting feel of the Altoids tin I'd brought with me weighing in my pocket; I don't want this to end. And I concentrate instead on the smooth skin on the back of Armin’s hand where I hadn’t realized I was tracing patterns. Or on the way the lights of cars and streetlights fracture beautifully through the windows. Just like the night Marco had first driven me home.

And then I’m seeing the way the color of his eyes had done that too - as we’d stood on the balcony outside his door - had fractured into thousands of distinct faceted shades when hit with light. I think about the way his hands felt like sunlight on my skin; like warmth and comfort and something plants need to grow upwards.

“Hey, Armin?” I say softly.

“Yeah?”

“What do you think love is?”

The quiet in the car feels like the undertow of a wave, I note. Like movement, but somehow negative. I realize Bertholdt and Reiner have stopped talking; the only sounds left are the background lull of the radio and the quiet hum of the car around us. Another memory. Blue and silver and dark.

“Love is… hmm… If you love someone you wanna make them proud, I think. Of you. Like of the person you are. Because you love them, you want to be better.” He pauses to take another breath, tilting his head as he considers for a moment before continuing. “And at the same time, loving someone means you get that they’re just as complicated and fucked up as you are and you want to be with them despite that.”

I lick my lips.

“So… Loving someone means you wanna be better. And it means you don’t need them to be.”

“Mmm, yeah, I like that. You should be a poet, Jean.”

I snort in response.

“I’m crap with words, normally. They get stuck in my head. There’s a spider web in there, I think.” Armin wrinkles his nose at that.

“Ick! Does that mean you got a spider in there too?”

“Hey, space cadets!” Reiner calls and I look up, the echoes of a fading smile still splashed across my face. The glowing lights above the door spell out Karanese in blinding neon. “We’re here.”

The trip from the car to the entrance is floaty and soft, like everything is draped in some kind of gossamer sheen. Each light I walk by glitters as if passing through cut class, fracturing off of multiple edges. Each face I pass is inviting, intriguing, interesting. Like his that night on the couch I’m standing by in line to pay cover.

 

“ _I think you’re plenty interesting_.”

 

Scraping. Skittering.

I focus on the music thumping from the door on the other side of the lobby, trying to lose myself and drift further downwards into the waves of euphoria. A hand clasps mine and I look down to see Armin’s eyes shining in the low light, pupils blown and huge, smiling dreamily. He’s softly swaying beside me.

“I wanna _dance_.” The half-whisper is drawn out. I can feel it too. In my gut, in my chest, low in my hips, like they’re attached to some kind of string that’s being gently tugged. They’re hit by the vibrations shaking up my legs from the floor.

We pass through into the darkness and the heat and the air that shakes like vibrations up shimmering strands of silk. But before Armin and I can go pushing through the crowd to find some space to dance by ourselves, I hear someone call to me.

“Hey! Jean, yeah? C'mere!” Bertholdt’s voice, I think. I look over at him to see Bertholdt digging in his pocket, tongue between his lips. Beside him, Reiner has his eyes half-lidded, already swaying back and forth, bobbing to the music. I'm almost lost in it too by the time Bertholdt's eyes light up and he pulls something into his hand and unwraps it. "Aha!" It's so easy to let my mind wander right now. Like everything is made of smooth, polished stone over which my eyes and thoughts alike can glide uninhibited. “Open your mouth.”

Bertholdt leans forward, holding up whatever he had in his pocket and I follow the instruction. A sweet flavor bursts across my tongue as he pops it into my mouth.

“Gum,” a deeper voice― _Reiner_ , my fuzzy, glimmering brain supplies―explains. I turn to see his smile illuminated by a passing slash of green light. “Helps with the teeth clenching.”

“Thanks,” I reply, smiling. “You guys are really nice.” They both laugh and shoot each other a smile. Whether at the comment or the slightly garbled way I say them in the few seconds it takes for me to remember how my tongue works, I couldn’t say. I'm laughing too as I start chewing. And I do vaguely register a slight ache in my jaw. Their laughter is _infectious_. Not only that, the way they glance at each other, eyes full of warmth and adoration in the low lights and surging music, is such a gorgeous thing.

Everything seems like that. Everyone is soft and beautiful and the affection bubbling in my chest is warm and wonderful and I smile again.

“You’re pretty ok yourself!” Bertholdt replies. “Next time your boytoy’s not DJing he should come out with us too!”

Scraping. Scrabbling.

Like a skip in a record, the warm gloss over my chest hitches. I can only nod at Reiner in response and toss him a hazy smile.

"Guuuys," Armin almost whines and I snicker good-heartedly. "Let us go dance now!" He's almost bouncing on the balls of his feet to the beat of the song, plucking at my shirt hem with anticipation. Reiner laughs and makes a shooing motion with his hands.

"Go on, crazy kids. Be safe, drink lots'a water, have fun."

And in a whirl of color, I'm being lead by the wrist into the throng of undulating bodies and flashing lights. Armin finally finds a gap in the crowd where he abruptly drops my wrist and throws himself, eyes closed, blush splashed across his cheekbones, into dancing.

And I'm right there with him. Because the music slides up into me, slithers along my veins as if there are threads snaking through the center of me, being tightened, being plucked, being tugged.

 

_There was a time, there was a place_

_But there was fear inside_

 

I don’t look forward to see who’s playing. Don’t want to confirm what I already can feel in the way my arms flow and my hips twist. I’m not sure if it’s a conscious move or I’m just too fucking high at this point to realize what’s going on anymore. And I don't want to. I just want to sink into this, to float, to let the flashing lights blur out of focus and let go.

Because it’s so tiring, living in the center of a web. So tiring, feeling every little thing you’re connected to with such intensity. And simply I couldn’t take it. Not when, even now, I can feel the twanging blur of the thread between us shaking.

 

_To cross the line takes a tiny step_

_But will the spark cause the bridge to burn_

 

Maybe I do have a mind like a spider’s web, after all. One delicate and so easily disrupted by the slightest of movements. One that catches and clings to things it sometimes shouldn’t, that weigh it down.

Oh, what a thing it is to call something that was built to be a trap home.

 

_My fear entwined with my regret_

_I beat a path for safe return_

 

My head is _exploding_ with music. With the lights that dance across the back of my eyelids and I realize I’ve let them drift closed to just feel. Just feel the pulsing of the music racing up my body like the ripples of a pond expanding outward, taking me with them.

I’m less… me here, now. Before, it has always been me interacting with the music, like it and I were moving through steps choreographed for two. I was, myself, a piece within this thrumming intertwined net of sounds and flickering lights.

 

_And have I lost my only chance_

_To tell you how I feel inside?_

 

But now I feel almost as if I’m eroding, losing touch slowly until _Jean_ feels like a far away concept I need not concentrate on too hard. Like I can just remove myself and not worry because with my eyes closed and the music going, I am not connected to anything.

 

_Is it just me, I'd like to know_

_Or are we all just a little blind?_

 

Because I guess I've always lived inside a trap. And this? This is just my latest pathetic attempt at desperately claw my way out in the whatever way I can find.

 

_Cus there's a thing called love that we all forget_

_And it's a wasted love that we all regret_

 

Because I _know_ it’s him up there even without opening my eyes. Even without thinking the thought. Can feel it in the way the music climbs inside me, makes my ribcage feel fuzzy with the vibrations, can feel it in the scraping that starts again in the back of my brain.

So I push it back; numb it out.

 

_You live your life just once_

_So don't forget, forget about a thing called love_

 

Push it back. Push it back. Push it back.

A slower, underlying beat that has floated up into the newest song thuds long to the repetition of my thoughts. I try to sink into it instead, focus on how the heaviness of the bass and the shimmer of the high hats feel like footsteps on concrete, feel like rain on concrete and I’m back there again. Walking out of a liquor store with a cigarette in my hand, my footsteps heavy like this bass with the weight of every regret, every action taken out of fear that I drag behind me.

 

_And when the big wheel starts to spin_

_You can never know the odds_

_If you don't play, you'll never win_

 

Push it back. Numb it out.

I try to focus on the glisten of the rain the high hats make, how I can feel them inside me now because I’m still fucking high and everything almost _glows_. It’s astounding how I still want to dance, still feel those waves of _good_ rippling through me, still feel myself smiling even now.

People like us... we sorry, hopeless people, we broken, lonely, terrified people?

God, we do such desperate things, don’t we?

 

_We were in heaven you and I_

 

I am _floating_. There is the calm, serenity of being surrounded by water but an expanding openness that comes with looking down into the vastness of the ocean below your floating feet. The echoing shudder of water stopping up your ears and the comforting weight of submersion surrounds me.

 

_When I lay with you and close my eyes_

_Our fingers touch the sky_

 

There's such melancholy, such longing to this music and, _God_ , I can hear him in it. It is the duality of sadness, of grief; this lulling of gently churning water and then suddenly comes a bolt of sharpness: a screeching point of searing pain like the way his voice had cracked around the word _sweetheart_ and I can't bear to open my eyes.

I'm drifting away, floating softly and nothing is real. There is no earth beneath my feet, no sky above my head. There is no scorching hatred or yowling caverns within my chest. There is only the ocean slowly engulfing me, cocooning me in water until everything is shimmering and muffled and slowly swaying and I am alone.

 

_I'm sorry, baby..._

_You were the sun and moon to me_

_I'll never get over you, you'll never get over me..._

 

A hand closing around my wrist snaps me alert, pulls me up and I breach the surface with an almost shocking start before the warmth and gloss almost immediately slides back into place around me in a calm bubble.

But the hand is not slim and small, is not Armin's. I turn with a distant, carefree curiosity only to find cheeks dusted with a spattering of freckles, to find dark brown eyes glinting green and red and blue with the flashing lights.

Marco.

His lips are moving but I can't hear him over the music continuing to thump loudly around us, drowning him out and swallowing his words. I can feel the scraping there again at the sight of him, at the feel of his hand on my skin like the kiss of warm sunlight against my wrist, but it is so far back I can't bring myself to pay it any mind.

All I can focus on is how good I feel, how bright and happy and free. And at the sight of him, of my beautiful, shining Marco here before me beneath the sweeping lights, I can't find it in my molly-ridden brain to be terrified or distraught. I can only find it in myself to distantly wonder why his eyebrows are knitting together in a way I'm not paying enough attention to to decipher as he begins walking, pulling me back out of the crowd, hand still firmly around my wrist.

I follow him dreamily through the doors into the lobby and out onto the sidewalk outside and down a ways from the door. Marco stops abruptly, almost throwing my wrist from his grip and whirling to face me.

"What the hell are you playing at?" Marco asks, his forehead full of lines, his voice full of tightness and hurt, his eyebrows twisted down together in the middle. God, he's so beautiful.

"What do you mean?" I ask, confused and distracted. "Dancing."

"I- Why didn't- You-" Marco starts but each time he stutters out in frustration after a few words. His hand comes up to run jerkily through his hair as he lets out a large huff of air. "Do you have any idea what it's been like for me the past few days? I've been so _worried_. And _confused_. I don't understand what happened and it's _killing_ me!"

The wave of a chill races from my shoulders down my arms and I feel goosebumps prickle up on my skin in its wake. Marco is upset, I realize. Sad and upset and it's my fault.

Of course it is. That’s what I'm good at, after all―fucking things up for people.

In my head words race each other around my skull, looping in crisscrossing circles. They trip and fall over each other in my trap of a home and stick there, vibrating like condemned flies. _I_ _'m sorry_ , they say. _Your dreams deserve you more than I do,_  they say. _All I do is take and take and take and take and-_

"I missed you." Is what comes out instead. And I am horrified; terrified. And Marco freezes, his mouth halfway open.

I am horrified and terrified and I love him so much my chest _aches_ with it.

Something flickers in his eyes and the thought that it is the beginnings of tears starting to film over his vision slides through my consciousness and out in the same second. His jaw flexes and his Adam's apple bobs and his hands spasm at his sides like they want to move.

"What are you trying to do to me, Jean?" he asks. And his voice is no longer angry. It's small and hurt and crackling like his words are fraying at the edges and I don't understand.

In the silence between us, I chew my gum against the tension in my jaw, swaying slightly on my feet. He takes a deep, shuddering breath, his eyes coming to settle on mine again. I see his widen for a moment then squint in confused suspicion.

"Are you... high?"

A garbled laugh bubbles in my chest at the tickling warm feeling and the swirling knot of confusion and joy mixed up in my blender of a brain right now. It comes out more as a choked, coughing snort.

"Uhh, maybe, yeah." Another terribly timed squeezed laugh.

Marco's eyebrows draw up in the most terrible tension and he takes a seemingly unconscious step and a half towards me. One hand comes to waist level as if he were going to raise it but froze. My gaze is still glued to his face, and I guess I mirror his step, mesmerized by the patterns of freckles under his left eye and the tight press of his lips.

He is close enough to touch and my entire body is leaning, drawn toward him; my hand aches to reach out and touch his cheek, to smooth his bangs from his forehead. And before I notice, my fingertips are brushing the soft skin along the line cheekbone.

" _Don't._ " Marco's hand darts up and locks around my wrist again, fingers digging into the soft skin below my palm in a way I'm sure would normally be painful. I slide my hazy gaze from his hand to his eyes to the way his jaw clenches and his lip trembles.

"You're so beautiful," I whisper and in that moment he looks like someone at a funeral, someone peering into an open coffin. But maybe not like that, I think, as I study the freckles under his eyes again. And the tear that slides silently between them down over his jaw clenched against more of them.

Marco looks at me like those people you see on the news right after a hurricane has just ripped through their town. The camera always pans to their faces as they stand before the rubble where their home used to be.

He looks at me like that. Like I'm a pile of splintered wood and water-damaged heirlooms and shattered picture frames and when people say they want someone who sees them as they truly are, I don't think they know what they're really asking for.

He pulls in a breath so deep in looks like it hurts him before his grip tightens even further on my hand and he is shouting.

"Why are you so _scared_ of me!?" he almost screams, body jerky with anger and hurt. "I did _everything_ I could to be worthy of trust, to show you how much I care about you. How much it would rip me apart to hurt you. How I would do _anything in the world_ rather than hurt you, Jean. You make- When I'm with you-" he sputters out, emotion clogging his throat and pinning his tongue for a moment.

 

“ _Because you love them, you wanna be better._ ”

 

There are people further down the sidewalk staring but Marco pays them no mind, continuing on after a hitched inhale.

"There wasn't a _second_ of the last three days I haven't been obsessing over _every_ little thing, wondering what the _fuck_ I did wrong."

 _No, no, no, it wasn't you, love, it was never you._ I'm _what was wrong. Can't you see that? Can't you see?_

_I live in a spider's web and you need to get out while you still can._

But I am frozen, my words stuck, struggling in vain to break free. So I don't say them. _Can't_ say them.

Marco's eyelashes are now wet with tears and he blinks fiercely against them. The arcs of his lashes are splaying across his cheeks like the reaching legs of a spider and somewhere something whispers to me that other spiders, of all things, have practice carefully navigating webs. Even if they're not their own. That Marco, of all people, knows what it is to have a mind like a spider’s web, to live encased in one, to have one hashed into your very skin.

Eyes wet with tears, face flushed with emotion, Marco gestures jerkily at me with his free hand. "And here you are, partying it up, rolling on- on whatever the fuck you're on-"

"Molly..." I whisper, unable to look anywhere but his face. My free hand moves of its own accord to my pocket as I pull out the tin with a muted rattle.

Marco stares at it, eyes wide with disbelief.

Before he can reply, the door of Club Karanese bangs open to reveal Erwin Smith, dressed in a sharp suit coat and a stiff scowl, glancing around for a moment before his eyes lock on Marco and me, the tin of molly still hovering in the air between us.

As if the moment is frozen, I take in several things simultaneously.

I see Erwin glance between Marco's flushed, tear-streaked cheeks and my bewildered stare. I see Marco's eyes widen and flit between Erwin and the tin in my left hand. And I watch him snatch it from me so quickly it's a blur, and stuff it into his back pocket as Erwin begins to stalk toward us.

He took them, I realize, in case-

"Is there a problem here, Marco?" Erwin's voice is a low, unforgiving rumble, hard like steel. His eyes bore into me and I stare up at him, wide-eyed. I accidentally swallow my gum.

"N-no," Marco chokes out and then clears his throat. "Just a... just a misunderstanding." Marco’s eyes flit back to me as Erwin's remain narrowed and suspicious and he looks me up and down.

"I can call Mike or Nanaba if he's causing you trouble," Erwin adds, a hand inching toward his pocket.

"That won't be necessary," Marco insists and I see him nervously tuck his hands into his back pockets, covering the tin full of pills where their bulge had been somewhat apparent. "Thanks for checking on me Erwin. I can handle it from here."

"All right," Erwin says reluctantly. He gives me one more pass of his gaze, eyes never widening from their distrustful narrowing, before nodding stiffly. "Be back in the green room by '45. And if you need anything, come straight to me."

Marco nods enthusiastically.

"Aye-aye, captain."

Erwin turns on his heels and heads back toward the door. Neither Marco nor I move a muscle until Erwin has completely disappeared back into Karanese.

"Why did-" I start, dazed, turning to look at Marco once again who is staring after Erwin at the entrance. "Why did do that for me?"

Marco doesn't look at me, only takes his hands out of his pockets, jaw tight, lips pressed into a colorless line.

"Go home, Jean," Marco mutters, voice flat as he takes a step past me, back toward the building. Turning after him, I stare at his broad back, eyes wide.

"Marco, I-"

His steps pause for a split second, not turning back to me, just long enough for him to interrupt me with more force, voice equally as hollow.

"I said go _home_ , Jean."

I stare after him, frozen on the sidewalk as Marco disappears back into Karanese, the beat thrumming distantly from deep inside the building.

A sound rises in my throat again and I think it's another inexplicable laugh until it comes out as a sob. And it splinters like wood, it shatters like glass, it fractures like the colors in Marco's eyes as he'd stared into me.

And oh, how it breaks. Like his precious, _beautiful_ heart in my clumsy, tainted hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [fanfic/podfic blog](http://zoe-bug.tumblr.com/) | [personal](http://xiexiecaptain.tumblr.com/) | [twitter](https://twitter.com/xiexiecaptain)
> 
> Hope you enjoyed the update! I always love hearing reactions, so don't hesitate to let me know what you thought C:  
> Thank you so much for sticking with the story!! <3


	12. Burn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And it's far too much for one person to endure. 
> 
> Because he is the sun and the light and I don't know how to wake up from these nightmares of _falling_ -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter took so long to get out. I had to take my time with it to make sure I wasn't triggering myself really digging into the heavy topics it deals with. Thank you so much to everyone who's left a comment or sent me an ask about this story. It means so so so much to me. Thank you for sticking with my boys.
> 
> \-----PLEASE BE AWARE OF THE CHAPTER WARNINGS AND TAKE CARE OF YOURSELF!-----  
> Chapter Warnings: self-hate & depressive thoughts, self-harm, smoking, anxiety/panic, major depression, vague suicidal thoughts, emetophobia warning
> 
> As always, please check out all the amazing [fanart](http://zoe-bug.tumblr.com/tagged/cutting-shapes-fanart/) people have done for the fic.  
> Also if you're interested, [here](http://archiveofourown.org/series/327839) is the ongoing collection of side pieces I've written for CS.
> 
> Again thank you all for the support and interest in this fic. I hope you enjoy the chapter!

I couldn’t say exactly when the hazy blur of my apartment―filled with low light and softly drifting smoke―slipped from waking and into the dream. I think I remember the slow creep of grey light that proceeds dawn encroaching on the darkness beyond my window at one point, but I couldn’t really be sure.

I remember the smoke curling into shapes as I lay, transfixed, watching them. And the smoke had flared into curving planes, had begun to drift back down to me. It had  floated down around me, seemed to press heavily into me and settle like something unfurling from the center of my back and―

And when I’d looked down I was hanging here in the air, suspended above that vast darkness once again.

Over my shoulder, the sound of wings fluttering against the air whispers into the silence. Their edges are fuzzy and indistinct and bits of mist seem to be curling off them with every movement. I tilt my head up and I feel the light before I see it. Warm and bright, just like before, and I am reaching my hand upwards again, drawing closer and closer―

“ _Why are you so_ _ **scared**_ _of me!?_ ”

The faraway words echo in my head and roiling anxiety seems to rise in me, as if the darkness is dragging itself upwards, climbing up my body hand over icy, suffocating hand.

Why am I so scared?

Wisps of smoke trail from my wings and dissipate into the darkness and the light is growing closer and I can feel the heat and the warmth on my face growing hotter and the panic grips tighter in my chest―

“ _Oh, Jean_ …” Beside my ear, that voice has reappeared. Familiar and so close, as if leaning over my shoulder. “ _You know this is all a dream, right? Just keep going._ ”

I ignore the voice and slow my ascent, catching sight of smoke dissipating out of the corner of my eye.

“ _Why do you keep coming_ here _of all places?_ ” the voice inquires with a chuckle. It sounds almost sad. Continuing to disregard the voice, I glance into the darkness spiraling downwards below my feet.

And then I look up and _God_ the light above me is so _bright_ , so _hot_. But I know how these stories go; I know what happens to boys who try to fly too close to the sun...

There is a sigh beside my ear. A rush of warm air.

“ _That’s not how it works, Jean._ ” Patient. Sad. “ _That’s not how any of this works._ ”

I begin to feel pinpricks of heat along my back. Swiveling my head around, I find my smoking wings spotted with small holes. They’re rimmed by singed, burning edges that curl in on themselves as they spread.

“No…” I whisper, horrified, unable to wrench my eyes away from the way the light is eating into me, _searing_ me―

The voice is back, firmer and more serious than before.

“ _That’s not_ him _, Jean_. _You_ know _that._ ” But I flinch from the light and the burning, searing wings begin to let off thicker smoke, billowing around me and clouding my vision. It dims the light above me, clogs my throat―

“I’m g- I’m going to _fall_...” I gasp and the words come out so quietly they ring more like a faraway echo in my ears.

“ _Call for help!_ ” the voice pleads in barely a whisper. It sounds so _heartbroken_ and I don’t understand. “ _When you wake up people won’t be suns or moths or light anymore, Jean. They’ll just be people._ ”

My vision is swimming and I feel myself starting to fall. I open my mouth but no sound comes out and the voice grows further and further away as I plummet into the dark, cold abyss below...

“ _People who want so desperately to catch you..._ ”

 

 

 

 

I jolt awake and aside from a faint, fading sense of vertigo, the first thing I’m aware of is the pain.

It’s an insistent, repetitive tugging that jerks me above the rippling surface of sleep and refuses to let me sink back under. Stabbing hot blossoms of pain keep ebbing behind my eyes and at my temples.

I almost roll off onto the floor before realizing I’m lying on the couch. Slowly propping myself up on one elbow I peer around the bright room, eyes squinting against the light shining from the ceiling lamp. And the floor lamp. And the oven light.

What in God’s name had possessed me to turn on every fucking light in my apartment?

I try to think back to last night before falling asleep. I remember swaying with eyes closed to pulsing music, feeling it mingle with the way the glow of the lights had tinged the backs of my eyelids in a soft golden haze. I remember turning on every light I passed with an almost ritualistic intent. I remember...

There is a heaviness that sinks about my body as if every point of contact with the couch or the floor or pillow becomes made of lead. I feel _exposed_. As if the lights don’t stop at my skin. The area around me seems achingly hollow, empty in a foreboding way that makes me recoil. My anxiety seems to make it stretch out before me in a cold, reaching chasm and everything in me aches to just slink under covers - into shadows - and fall back asleep.

But _God_ the pounding in my head is terrible. All I want is to pull the tiny fleece blanket draped over the back of the couch around me and let it’s soft, enclosing nature let me pretend there is nothing outside.

“ _I don’t understand what happened and it’s_ killing _me!”_

My chest seizes with a silent sob and I press my hands to my throbbing head.

I don’t know how I manage to lift my body from the couch. Every step takes momentous effort and my feet drag and scuff along the floor as I trudge around to the light switch by the door. Then the one by the refrigerator. I let out a raspy sigh of relief as I’m left with only the light of the floor lamp across the room.

Through blurry, squinted eyes I spot aspirin on the table and shake out two. In my bleary, pained state, of course, another comes rolling out of the bottle and onto the floor before I can manage to grab it.

I make the mistake of bending over to pick it up. A rushing wave of pain slams into the sore spots around my skull and I let out another frustrated hybrid grunt or sob of pain.

Because with the pain comes the realization of shadows wrapping me up again, comes the memories of hours of laying here on my floor. And the burning itch of self loathing comes bubbling up through my chest and there is only so long I can keep myself upright when every part of me feels like it is cracking off in shards.

The cushions of the couch are wildly blurring through silent tears by the time my knees buckle back down on to it. I roll on my side and shut my eyes tight, tugging the blanket up over my head at the wild chance that it will keep more than just the single light out.

Shaking and crying into a shadowy, silent apartment, the hopeless, hateful emptiness rushes back in, like darkness into the space a candle once lit.

And there is nothing.

No “later,” no “tonight,” no “tomorrow.”

The terrified engine that once drove me to caulk up my cracking seams and make it just _work_ is now what is pinning me captive. It erects a wall of exhaustion and hopelessness that bounces off any thoughts of planning or damage control or starting to glue back together the shards of my situation where I’d given up on holding them together.

So now all there is is the dark and the pain and the tears and the tiredness. The bone-deep tiredness that feels like it will never end. That I will sink slowly into the ground and become nothing but this aimless circling patchwork of thoughts.

And so I sleep. Because the aspirin kicks in and the exhaustion overtakes me. And because I just can’t bear to face a world that expects me to be something resembling together. Not now. Not yet. I don’t have it in me.

It feels like I don’t have anything in me, to be honest.

 

 

 

 

The next time I wake, it’s to the sound of my phone buzzing loudly along the kitchen table. I’m thirsty and craving a smoke and still so tired it feels like a physical weight.

I couldn't say how long I’d slept.

Time is doing that funny thing again where it seems to slip and stutter along at inconsistent rates like the initial ascent of a roller coaster car. Jolting, setting my teeth rattling painfully against each other, time climbs sickeningly toward a looming, unknown precipice.

My phone stills and goes silent. I close my eyes for a moment. Two moments. A hundred. Clack clack clack that rickety metal ride pulling me upward, upward, so _nauseatingly_ high―

I throw the thin blanket off me and somehow, miraculously (probably due to the aspirin still keeping my headache mercifully at bay,) I stand up.

The granola bar feels like dirt in my mouth, dry and gritty. But I force myself to chew, leaning against the counter, try to count― _left side two, right side two, left side one, right side one, swallow, bite, repeat―_ as I watch the wrapper glint dully in my grip.

I make the mistake of looking at my phone.

 

**12 MISSED CALLS**

 

A heaving, soaring feeling of terrifying weightlessness surges through me, acidic. Hot-cold washes of a fever or adrenaline rake over my body with horrifying rapidity.

I manage to make it to the bathroom before I’m heaving up the scant mouthfuls of granola bar and stomach acid into the toilet. Cold sweat breaks out on my forehead.

I’m coughing, shuddering as the feeling works its way through me. A surge of fever-hot heat washes over me and I’m sweating under my shirt, my cheeks burning and then I’m dry heaving painfully over the toilet bowl, my hands shaking and numb where they grip the porcelain edges. I gasp in a breath that’s colored with a sob as the heaving subsides and the heat vanishes, only to be replaced with a chill that races along all the sweat-damp skin and exposed extremities. And again. Shuddering, wracking cycles of heat and chills and dry-heaving.

After long minutes kneeling on the cold tiles of the bathroom I finally conclude, shivering, that the nausea has passed. My vision is blurry with illness-induced adrenaline and I’m damp with cold sweat and my stomach aches from involuntary clenching.

Flushing the toilet with a bitter, raspy laugh, I realize that the exhaustion and pain has managed to drain away some of the teeth-aching panic of a moment before.

I manage to avoid even looking at the missed calls and texts when I turn on my phone long enough to send a text to Kitts. There’s no way I can go into work today. There’s no way I can go anywhere today.

There’s a sort of heavy darkness that seems to descend around my head as I shuffle slowly back into my bedroom. A sort of empty blackness within me that stretches around me and pushes the edges of the world far, far out of my reach.

Pulling back the covers to climb into bed, I touch the blankets as if through layers and layers of gloves. The sounds of cars rushing past on the rain-soaked road outside reach me as if through muffling gauze. And the ceiling above me looks like I’m watching it on television as I stare up at it―something in another world, another reality that knows nothing of my existence.

Something untouchable and unalterable and completely separate from me.

Maybe if I lay here long enough I’ll sink backwards away from the world little by little until I’m not here at all.

I wonder if things would be better like that. If I just weren’t here at all.

 

 

 

 

My eyes are fading in and out of focus as I watch my phone vibrate across the coffee table. This is the sixth―maybe seventh, I can’t be sure―time since I moved out to the couch. The names that blink up on my screen seem to almost rotate. I watch them come in through the curling smoke from my cigarette. One name. Then another. And then another.

Sasha. Connie. Eren. Sasha. Unknown Number.

I just watch blankly as each call pushes the phone along the table with its vibrations before going still once more.

The knocking's come again it almost seems, but in a different form. This time I'm in a room made of nothing _but_ doors and each call, each burst of buzzing against the table before me is another knock on the doors surrounding me. I'm trapped and the walls are closing in, pushed forward by each terrifying, pounding knock.

And the worst part is they don't know it.

Because it's not their fault. It's my fault I'm like this―so terrified and trapped and closed in by those who care for me far more than they should. Than I deserve.

My chest aches from the involuntary spasming that's rushed up so quickly it takes me by surprise. Another drag from my cigarette comes in shaky and the smoke leaves me in choppy puffs because, God, I can't _breathe_ , can't see through my sudden blurry vision. I can't tell if it's tears or the way my eyes sometimes won't stop darting around in terror.

_Make it stop, make it stop―_

I'm hiccuping, sobbing, gasping, wheezing in and I can't breathe, can't _breathe_ ―

 

 _"I’m g- I’m going to_ fall... _"_

 

It all converges on me at once. Like a gunshot, like a train, like a bag of bricks, like every heavy, unrelenting object that this has every been compared to, anything that's made someone think of being smashed clean through and I _can't breathe_.

Wolves and spiders and shadows and darkness and I can't move, can't _breathe_ , can't―

I see his face like a half-remembered dream just after waking up. There is a sort of glow around him in my mind, like sunshine or a candle's glow. Bright and luminous and smiling and I am falling, can hear the wolves snapping below, me waiting to tear me to pieces, can feel the swirling thoughts slicing through me like hot spikes and I am falling... falling...

 

_No, no, no― useless―_

                                    _idiot_

_worthless_

         _fucked it up again_

                   _you should-_                 _should shouldshouldshould have known_

                                                            _all your fault_

                                           _all your fault_

 

I am nineteen again: locked in a dorm bathroom stall, mouth sour with the lingering taste of vomit and cigarette smoke. I am paralyzed and shaking, wanting something, _anything_ to make it go away, to open some crack in me to let this vile sludge out―

The searing red of the end of my cigarette glows brightly, smearing like neon signs through rain. And through the way blackness clouds around the edges of my vision, fuck if it doesn't look like the closest thing to a light at the end of this tunnel I've seen.

Ash falls from the end of the cigarette from the unsteadiness of my hand and I stare down at the blurred vision of my arm lying palm up along my leg. Along the forearm faint, nearly invisible spots of lighter skin tinge their way along its length.

 

_should have could have shouldcould_

                           _pathetic_

_worthlesspathetic_

                                                   _stupidmessed everything up_

_alone_

_alonestupid―_

_worthlesspathetic sss-s-shouldcould have_

        _all your fault all your fault_

 

And for a moment, when I close my eyes I feel Marco's scars once more beneath my lips. I feel the way he'd shook, unable to look at them.

I remember how calm I'd felt in that moment. Before the fear had set in.

Before the shadows had come creeping up to claim me and drag me alone into the darkness once more. And I let out a muffled sob at the memory of his hands on my skin and his lips on my neck and the way he'd called me "sweetheart" and the way he'd t-told me he didn't... he d-didn't want-

 

                                _all your fault_

 

_shouldshouldshould_

_all your fault_       

                                                    _worthlessuseless pathetic good for nothing cantdoanythingright_

_you deserve it―_

 

The first icy, sharp flare makes me squeeze my eyes shut and yet the corrosive air loosens the smallest bit in my chest and I gasp. Tears are spilling down my cheeks and I open my eyes wide again, vision blurring through tears.

I am nineteen again in the storage closet in the basement where the smoke detector doesn’t work. Tears are streaming down my cheeks, one shaking arm with a hand clenched into a fist outstretched, the other clutching a smouldering cigarette.

I am nineteen again and I am alone and unwanted and a disappointment and―

Again.

Again.

Narrowing to that bright point that holds no vile words stabbing in my mind, that holds no pictures of his hands on my skin, of his tender eyes, of flicker of belief that I was enough of a reason to stay―

Again.

There is a foul, wretched stench in the air slowly wafting past the roaring torrent of quivering muscles and shuddering breaths I only distantly recognize as mine―

Again.

Until I don’t remember where I live. Until I don’t remember who I know. Until I don’t remember anything outside of this room, outside of this body that feels nothing but this clearness. Until I don’t remember the feeling his lips against my temple, or the endless depths behind his eyes, or the way he made me feel like there was something beyond just getting by―

Until I don’t remember that there was a place I could reach that was something other than shadows―

 _Again_.

Only this.

Until there is only this.

Because this is the closest I’ll ever get to feeling the warmth of his sunlight on my skin again―

“Jean!”

Dreamlike, I turn my head toward the door. My eyes are wide, nearly unseeing, my vision blurred with tears and my breath still wheezing its way into my lungs with labored, ragged breaths.

And there he is.

Back-lit by afternoon sunlight, hair a haphazard mess, face pale, frozen in horror in my open doorway.

"I-" My voice is a croaking, ragged thing―small despite its rawness. I sound horribly lost, even to my own ears. "I j-just-..."

I realize I'm still hunched over my arm with my lit cigarette dripping ash onto the angry red marks littering my arm.

“Jean- oh God, Jean, Jean, please stop, sweetheart, _please stop_ -" Marco is gasping, breathless as he crosses the room to me, one hand gently but with a nearly desperate firmness closing around my right wrist.

"I just w-wanted... wanted it t-to- to s-s- _stop_ -" I'm gasping, trembling, the pain in my left arm pulling my thoughts down and away from anything else.

"I know, I know, Jean. God, it's not your fault," Marco is murmuring as he snags what's left of my cigarette and grinds it out distractedly, pulling my right arm away and down to my side. "It's not your fault, baby, I know. I don't blame you. Everything's going to be okay."

Eyes still wide, staring through him―past him―I shake my head, my lips trembling around words I can't seem to force through them.

"No- You- I'm-"

"Shh, shh..." Marco soothes, kneeling beside me on the couch and he gathers me to him, careful of the burns on my left arm, stroking slowly up and down my back. It takes me a moment to realize his chest is trembling where my face is pressed into it.

The smell of his shirt and his skin seems to drag more tears burning up into my eyes and I'm trembling so violently my teeth chatter against anything I try to say.

"I'm s-sorry, I-I'm- I'm s-so s-s-sorry, G-God, I-... I-"

"Shh..." Marco presses his face to the top of my hair, letting out a long breath into it. "It's okay, Jean. It's okay. I'm here now. It's not your fault."

I'd forgotten this feeling. Marco's arms around me, his voice in my ear absolving me of all my guilt and all my trespasses, his lips reverently against my forehead as if bestowing some blessing... none of which I am deserving of.

And I feel as if I'll shake apart with it.

This. _This_ is why I'd run. Because the things that live within me whip up storms inside my mind made of things he's said and things he hasn't said and the unforgiving clarity of my multitude of flaws.

And it's far too much for one person to endure.

Because he is the sun and the light and I don't know how to wake up from these nightmares of _falling_ -

 

" _People who want so desperately to catch you..._ "

 

I sob into his chest, unable to keep my shaking hand from twisting into the material of his shirt.

"You're okay, Jean. You're okay. I'm here and I'm not leaving, okay?" Marco's voice is fierce against my forehead, despite the slight waver in it. And there's that word again. That complicated, terrifying word that flows so easily from his lips like it's possible or attainable. Like it's something I could one day be. "It's not your fault, sweetheart. It's not your fault."

“I don’t d-deserve it-" I manage, cracked and hoarse and lost. "I-I d-don’t _deserve_ this.”

Marco stiffens beneath me, his breath seeming to tremble in his chest.

And then he moves, his hands sliding to my shoulders and pulling back to look at me. I see, understanding, that there are tears streaming down his face, his dark eyes shining in the low light as he gazes at me. His lip trembles as he takes in a shaky breath.

“That’s not how it works, Jean," he whispers, eyes roving over my face, studying me as if to memorize and yet looking so, so _sad._ He swallows and shakes his head. "That’s not how any of this works.”

I stare back at him for a moment, unable to breathe.

"You love me."

It's a hoarse, cracked whisper; the furthest thing from a question. And Marco flinches at the way it comes out of me like a terminal diagnosis or the announcement of a death.

Tears well in his eyes and he nods, giving me the same awful, sad smile he'd given me when I'd told him, lips brushing along his scars, that he deserved the world.

"I love you," he agrees, voice as small and soft as mine.

I shake and the pain in my arm flares.

"I-" I start but Marco has leaned forward again and my face is buried in his collar bone with his arms so tight around me like he never wants to let me go.

"I know, I know..." he breathes into my hair and, _God_ , he's always been able to see right through me.

_I never thought-_

He's always been able to see right to the rotten, blackened core of me.

_I never thought-_

And somehow...

_I never thought someone would-_

"You're _worth_ it, okay?"

I never thought someone would ever find me worthy.

And yet here Marco is. Breathing those words into my hair like they are the Truth that holds the universe together and I never thought―

I let out a shaky breath against his collarbone, raising my right arm so _slowly_ to curl around his waist in return and rest on his broad back. I feel him squeeze me in return.

_I never thought I would believe them._

 And I don't. I _can't_.

Not yet, at least.

But still, I nod against him as he repeats them over and over against me― _I love you. You're worth it. It's not your fault. I'm not leaving―a_ nd I know he understands. Understands me. Understands that I'm unable to let them sink into my skin and warm me from the inside out but that at the very least I will _try_.

And so this is how we stay―me holding Marco while he holds me together, whispering words I can't quite bring myself to believe. Not yet.

 

 

 

 

Marco stays with me, patiently rubbing soothing circles on my back. After a while he cleans and wraps my arms in bandages he produces seemingly from nowhere. Another question to add to the list, under how he'd managed to unlock my door, for later. He presses some sort of cracker and a pill to my lips―"It'll help you relax. They're safe, I use them myself, okay?"―and makes me drink cup after cup of water before I feel drowsiness pulling at my eyelids.

Unable to place how I got there, I find myself lying on my bed, fighting to keep my eyes open. My head is fuzzy but the swirling shadows seem almost numbed. I can still feel them there, at the edges of my thoughts but they are no longer sharp, no longer tearing gasps from my chest or causing hatred to flare beneath my ribs.

"Marco..." I mumble, his name feeling clumsy in my mouth. I try to lift my hand to reach for him beside me but it feels so _infinitely_ heavy.

"Just get some sleep," he replies, placing his hand over my lamely twitching fingers and squeezing. "I'll be here when you wake up."

"I'm..." There's something I want to say but it's slipping rapidly away with my consciousness as the drowsiness continues to pull me under. "I..."

"Shh, we'll talk when you wake up," Marco assures and I feel his hand brushing the bangs off my forehead.

"I'm-... I-" I start again, fighting to stay above the surface but my eyes refuse to open now. But Marco - sweet, attentive, understanding Marco - knows, of course. Always knows when my words fail me in attempts to reach him. _I_ _'m sorry. And I love you._

"There's nothing to be sorry for, sweetheart." Lips against my forehead, soft and slow and illuminating. Like the sparkles jumping off the surface of a river. Like the shine off freshly fallen snow. Like moonlight.

 

" _Oh,_ _Jean. We are_ all _reflected light_."

 

"And I love you too."

  

Just before I sink completely into unconsciousness, I can swear I hear music playing somewhere nearby.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [fanfic/podfic blog](http://zoe-bug.tumblr.com/) | [personal](http://xiexiecaptain.tumblr.com/) | [twitter](https://twitter.com/xiexiecaptain)


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